The Games Have Already Begun
by OnyxJinx
Summary: We begin the night before the 75th Reaping and discover the darker story between the pages of Catching Fire.
1. Nightmares

I put one foot in front of the other through the square as we make our way up to the temporary stage. Crisp clean white uniforms encircle me. Peeta and Haymitch follow with their own escorts. The hot sun glints off of the video cameras and machine guns while a golden Effie awaits us at the top of the stairs, wearing her plastic smile.

"Welcome, welcome!" she announces as she turns to the audience as we take our places. My mother and Prim are just a few feet away. Gale looms even further in the distance.

Effies voice echoes off of the Hall of Justice as she makes the traditional introductions and I keep my eyes on Gale, waiting for him to look up at me. I know this may be the last time I see him, so I don't dare look away. But why isn't he looking back? I'm worried he won't make an appearance after the reaping for a proper goodbye.

It's time for Effie to pull my name out of the crystal bowl. Her hand hovers in the usual, made for television suspense and finally snatches up the lonely strip of paper. Again, hesitating in her usual fashion, she calls my name. I walk up to take center stage to my mark, placing my feet perfectly over the X of white tape. After a moment, I realize Effie hasn't made another sound. I glance up at her to make sure nothing emotional has interrupted her speech, but when I look for her golden hair and long fake eyelashes, I see a melting face with large teeth.

"What are you waiting for, honey? It's just you in this year's games," the mutated Effie growls as she lifts a claw towards me.

I try to take a step back, but my feet are tangled in vines of white tape. I twist myself around and cry for help from Peeta and Haymitch. As I turn, I see mutt versions of the two; Peeta's hair is frayed and foam drips from his cracked mouth, Haymitch's smile reaches from ear to ear, revealing snaggled and chipped teeth already caked with red.

I turn back to the crowd and see they are inching towards me, claws raised.

I search for Gale, but he has his back to me. "Gale! Gale, help!" I scream out to him. My feet are cemented to the ground. My pulse quickens and I feel sweat drip down the back of my neck.

The heat is unbearable, and I find it hard to breathe.

My mother and Prim, who where just feet from me a moment ago, are nowhere to be found.

"No, no this, this can't be happening..." I stammer just as a loud canon goes off and every video monitor flickers to life. President Snow's face floats in front of a black screen and he delivers his official announcement, "Congratulations, Ms. Everdeen. May the odds be ever in your favor." I stare at the floating head and watch his eyes glance back into the crowds direction. Following his gaze, I see Gale has returned, dead center, with Prim on his shoulders. Hands grab me from behind and keep me still while Prim lifts my bow and looses an arrow straight into my chest.

I can't even scream this time. My mouth hangs open as my lungs squeeze out every last bit of air, it hurts. My hands clutch at my sweat soaked shirt and my legs kick at the blankets twisted about my feet. A full minute passes before I can force myself to breathe again and the next exhale finally allows a cry to pass my lips.

This dream was different than the others; there were no dead tributes, no fires, no crumbling caves. Being killed by my own sister was definitely different. It seems no matter what I do for her, I will not be getting out alive.

Earlier that evening, Peeta and Haymitch joined my mother, Prim and I for a quiet dinner. Small talk was attempted, but really, what could you say on the eve of the reaping? Since our names were called a month ago, there had been time for last hugs and goodbyes, unlike last year. My anxieties of my departure from 12 - and this world - were slightly reduced when Prim assured me of her abilities, my mother of her sanity, and Gale of his duties.

About 9:30, Haymitch finally called it quits and for once sounded like the responsible one. "I don't know about you, but I don't want a rhinestoned boot up my ass in the morning if we aren't ready before you-know-who arrives. Goodnight." He forced himself up from the overstuffed chair and glanced at Peeta, giving him his cue to follow.

"He's right," Peeta said as he cleared his throat. "Mrs. Everdeen, thank you for the lovely meal." Even with a prosthetic leg, he stood with much more grace and ease than Haymitch. For courtesy, I see them to the door; Haymitch quietly made his exit with nothing more than a nod, but Peeta lingered for a moment. He looked at the floor and started to mouth something, but wasn't able find the strength to say the words. As my first act to save him, I simply said, "See you tomorrow."

His head popped up in relief and he smiled. "Yeah, see you tomorrow." When his blue eyes found mine, I returned the smile and lightly gave a squeeze to his arm as he stepped outside.

"Sweet dreams," I whispered as I latched the door closed.

I meant it sincerely. I crossed my fingers every night before I closed my eyes. I was sure he did the same. His paintings revealed that we shared the same condition. Although he had a paint brush to quiet his nightmares, my screams only fed mine.

My mother popped up and clapped her hands together, "Okay, off to bed you two! Big day tomorrow! I want you to be ready when Ms. Trinket arrives!"

I know my mother was trying her hardest to keep it together. I couldn't believe she didn't shut down again during the last games, and the eve of the Reaping, I was surprised she could even form whole words. So, I tried my best around my mother as well. I knew she heard my cries at night, yet every morning she welcomed me with open arms and a bright smile. Since the Quarter Quell announcement, I heard her cries too that only happened behind her closed door. But she was smiling now, so why couldn't I?

I walked across the room and hugged her tightly. Even though this hug had the same meaning as last year, this time there was warmth and life that I embrace.

"I love you mom," I whispered, nestled in her arms.

She pulled away and cupped my face in her fragile hands, "I love you too my dear, dear Katniss." The moment was interrupted by a tear threatening to jump from its ledge. She pulled away, sniffed and said, "Okay, off to bed! I will see you in the morning!"

Prim followed me upstairs and before we reached our respective bedrooms, we embraced. "Oh little duck... I don't know who is stronger: you, me or Buttercup. Seriously, I saw a Peacekeeper being cornered by that demon cat." My horrible efforts to lighten the mood worked; a quiet chuckle nervously came from my sister. She looked up at me and said, "Definitely Buttercup. But you're prettier."

It takes about fifteen minutes to finally calm down from this new nightmare. It must be a record. I can't shake the images of Prim's last action from my mind. I strip off my soaked shirt and go to the bathroom to fetch a cool washcloth. It's about 3 in the morning and there is no way I can attempt to close my eyes again. Instead, I peer out my window to Peeta's house; it wouldn't be fair to bother him this late at night. Then I notice a dim light in the window next door. Haymitch on the other hand.

I pull on a clean shirt, loose pants and my father's jacket before I sneak downstairs. I don't bother with my boots since it is only a short walk across the way to my mentor's. I quietly let myself inside and a familiar and unpleasant smell greets me. Haymitch promised his sobriety, but I guess old habits never die. I understand now why he chooses to drown himself - he's drowning his memories.

"Haymitch, it's just me. I couldn't... sleep." I find him in his living room, curled up with a dusty bottle of white liquor. I can't believe he managed to hide one last bottle of that stuff since our last binge. With a annoyed groan, I take a seat next to him and start to speak. I know he can't hear me, but to have a warm body in the same room will do just fine as a confessional. I spill out details of my haunting nightmares and embarrassing flash backs, my fears of leaving my sister and mother behind, the hurt I felt when Gale knew I could never be with him and finally, death found its way out of my mouth. Not the other tribute's, his or Peeta's, but mine. I have to say it out loud so that I can finally accept my fate. The odds are not in my favor, but highly stacked against me - Snow reminded me of that. I am going to die in that arena, but not until Peeta's victory is guaranteed.

I regret my decision to use Haymitch as my confidant when he answers with a burp and a deep snort.

"You're right," I say with a defeated sigh, "it's pointless working myself up." I wiggle the dusty bottle from his unconscious grasp and take a long pull. When the liquid stops burning its way down to my gut, I raise the bottle to Haymitch, lean back, put my feet on the coffee table and take another swig.

My head begins to buzz and the warmth spreads from my stomach out to my toes. I play with the buttons on my jacket and study the warn brass of the clasps, watching light play across the metal. It reminds me of my Mockingjay pin. Suddenly, I can't remember when the last time I have even seen it. I sit up and set down the empty bottle and put my head in my hands. I've got one thing that is going for me in that stupid arena, and I don't know where I put it. Well, not one thing, I can shoot, I guess. But it's the pin that bears the symbol that has moved a nation. When I die, I owe it to the rebels to be wearing it.

It is about 4:00 when I stumble out of Haymitch's house. There is something about pre-dawn that always sends a shiver through me, no matter what time of year. My bare feet squish along the dew soaked grass and I make my way to my old house.


	2. Monsters

_**AN: **__A huge thank you goes out to Estoma for working her beta magic on this chapter.  
__Rated M for some language and heavy adult themes. Trigger warning: Rape. _

* * *

I finally make it to the old shack. As I've done a hundred times before, when I came home from hunting, I slip through the back door. I take my jacket off and leave it on the chair in the corner, another old habit. The dust covered remains of furniture are all that greet me in the silence. Typically at this time of night, you would have to paw your way through the total darkness. Since the reaping, power surges through every street, fence, and television in the district. A dim light seeps in through the windows accompanied by sounds from a nearby work crew, frantically working to make up for lost time. There had been a delay in getting men and equipment out to 12; three weeks ago, there was another cave-in at the mines. It sent an earthquake through the District, creating a rockslide over the main rail line, nestled against a steep ridge. I wonder if the contractors have a boss who thrives on stress and last minute results like Effie. "Big, big day!" The sound of her voice in my head reminds me that in one day's time, I will be back in the Capitol and in a month's time, more than likely dead.

I take a deep breath and let the dust and dry wood fill my senses, sobering me for a moment while I remember what I came for. I realize why Haymitch drinks this stuff; I can't even remember what I had for breakfast this morning. I do a slow 180, peering through the long shadows, looking for a clue. I rub my eyes, breathe again and let out a slight chuckle. I'm going to be dead soon, and all that will be left of me is my Mockingjay pin. My pin! Cinna will kill me before I even see another tribute if I forget it. I quickly step into the other room where one of my father's many hidden compartments is. Wrapped in a small cloth, I find my pin along with other keepsakes too risky to keep out in the open: a rabbit's foot, my fathers ID tag from the mines, the first arrowhead I had ever made, and the container that held the medicine that healed Peeta.

I carefully wrap everything back up and seal the false panel. I make my way back to the front room, examining my pin, letting the feathers flicker in the low light. Suddenly, I hear voices, but not the same as from earlier. Quieter, closer, and more. . .military. I clench my pin in my right hand and duck into the shadows. I go to the back entrance to make my escape, but through the windows I see their white uniforms. "Shit, shit, shit, shit," I whisper. I turn back to find another escape. Two steps into the other room, I come face to face with Head Peacekeeper Romulus Thread. I stumble backwards against a table and catch myself with my free hand.

"Commander Th-Thread," I manage to spit out. "What brings you here?" He stands in front of me like a statue you would see in one of our school books; all in white, his uniform, his hair, his pale skin.

"I'm sorry, if there is something wro-"

"Quiet!" he barks, making me flinch. I can feel my face growing hot from the anxiety of being cornered. My head is still swimming in white liquor. "You are out after curfew, young lady."

"Curfew? But this is my-"

"House?" He cuts me off again. "This shit hole? We have reason to believe you might be attempting to escape. You know the laws, Miss Everdeen, if you refuse to attend the Reaping, your family will face grave consequences." I don't understand, where was he coming up with this? I know the laws, and even the new set of rules Snow had conjured in our last meeting.

I straighten up at the accusation and give a stern look. "I don't think you know the consequences you'll face when you fuck with a Victor" I lift a cocky eyebrow. Not only has the white liquor made me forgetful, it has made me careless. And slow.

Thread steps forward and grabs me by the back of my head, slipping his gloved fingers tightly around my braid. His face is inches from mine and a growl emits from his lips, coated in a coffee stench.

"I said, quiet," he hisses. I try to turn my face away, but my head is pulled back. "What's that in your hand?" I reluctantly raise my closed fist, and with his free hand, he turns my wrist over and I present him with my pin. His eyes dart back to mine, and I can see the corners crease as he smiles. "Contraband, even better." I feel the rough cloth of his gloves scratch over my palm as he confiscates my pin. I try to look down for one last glimpse of my pin, but yet again, I am controlled like a puppet by my braid.

"It's not contraband. It's my token for the games-" My head is pulled backwards in a swift jerk. I have no time to cry out, yet just enough time for him to shove the pin into my gaping mouth and clamp my jaw closed. I inhale deeply through my nose as if it is my last, and stare into Thread's eyes with bewilderment. My mouth starts to water in protest of the taste of brass. The coffee stench is now mixed with old leather and grease from his scratchy gloves. The adrenaline must be pushing out whatever alcohol is left, because my senses are finally awake. The statue of a man is now towering over me as I lean backwards over the table. The only things keeping me up is his hands around my head.

"You've caused me nothing but trouble, young lady. The square, that stunt you pulled jumping the fence, and now sneaking around after curfew. You victors think you are above the law, above me. Not anymore!" I clench my eyes closed and hold my breath. I can't fight this man, but can I scream? I can't even swallow, fearing asphyxiation. All I can do is question this man with my eyes.

"You victors are all the same. You didn't win your freedom; you just won some extra food and a fancy house. You have no right to undermined my authority." His eyes move from mine, sweeping down and back up. "I've had victors before. District 4 and 7, but a 'Mockingjay,' now that sounds even better."

Wait, what did he call me? Had? Oh no.

My eyes widen at the realization, wider than his stained smile. And in an instant, I am flat on my back on the dusty hard wood floor. The wind has been completely knocked out of me. Thread lies on top of me, his knees slip between my legs while he pins one of my arms down with one hand and covers my mouth again with the other. My free hand pushes against his white Kevlar vest as I try to shake his hand away. I kick until my heels grow numb. Saliva starts to pool in the back of my throat and I start to gag. Dust falls into my eyes, making me clamp them shut. The heat from Thread has enveloped me causing my heart to race. Suddenly, I am in the arena and hear explosions as I claw through smoke. Crackling trees are screaming from the fire. My heart is pounding, and I start to run.

The sound of Thread's voice brings me back. "Is this the kind of victor the Capitol is making now? You're pathetic."

I manage to swallow without letting the pin slip past my tongue. I open my eyes and see Thread look down as he is fumbling with something. A moment later, I feel a tug on the waist of my pants. I kick again, harder in protest, and turn my hips away. Finally, my free hand cracks him across the jaw. This stops him for a moment and his hand releases my pants. Before I can feel a sense of victory, he returns with a blade against my cheek.

"Don't you get it, you little cunt?" Thread spits his words in my face. I stare him down, reminding him this isn't the first time I have had a knife pulled on me. "You fucked up. President Snow wasn't too pleased with the outcome of your Victory Tour. He said you should be punished for your actions, but not like your _cousin_. We don't want to mark up that pretty little face of yours again, now do we? Or would you rather your sister, Primrose, take your place?" My eyes start to burn, but this time not from the dust.

My hands fall back in defeat. I feel the knife slide down my throat, between my breasts, over my belly and under the drawstring of my pants. A quick flip, and they hang loose across my waist. He drops his knife and plucks off his glove with his teeth and starts to tug at my pants again. My refusal to cooperate earns me a threatening look from Thread. I choke again and relax my hips so he can lower my pants.

The heat I felt turns ice cold. The belt and clasps of Thread's uniform graze my naked thighs causing me to shake and my teeth start to chatter. I roll my head to the side and look away, trying to find something in the darkness that I can use against him, even if it isn't physically tangible. The house was stripped, just as I was. The only thing left are the memories that it holds. My mind frantically searches for something to hold on to, but is torn away when I feel the tip of his member graze my flesh. Sobs erupt from my throat and bubble out into his glove. I shake my head and my eyes plead for him to stop. He rocks forward, pressing against me. When he spits into the palm of his hand, I snap my eyes shut and hold my breath. I feel his fingers slide between my legs, parting my folds, wiping his saliva against me. His cock presses against me a second time, stopping just inside my entrance.

"That's it," he whispers.

He wraps his right hand around my left knee, lifting my hips up to meet his, and gives a hard thrust, driving the rest of himself inside. I let out a jagged scream as he strikes deep inside my core. The small amount of spit he wiped across my lips did nothing to ease the friction of his complete penetration. He pulls out and pounds again, slowly and deliberately. I can feel him growing harder with every entry, with every scream. I try to tilt my hips to a different angle to avoid the painful blows, but his weight is too much for me. He plunges deeper and deeper, sending shockwaves through my body. Until now, I never realized how fragile I really was.

I spit into his glove, crying out, cursing his life as I'm pushed back and forth on the dusty wooden floor. Tears and saliva fall into my ears. His hand moves from my mouth and I gulp in the cold air, keeping the pin between my teeth. But when his hand finds my throat, I panic. Training and instinct kick in and my hands start to move, clawing at his face. I am not dying on this kitchen floor. Not for his stupid rules.

My head started to pound. My body began to ache. Red flashes across my eyes in rhythm with Threads rocking, his white hair and uniform pulse crimson. Slowly, the room was started to fade into darkness. His breath is intensifying, as is his thrusts. His growls are not at all human.

The smell of wet grass, blood and mutts fills my senses. Their grunts and growls echo in my ears as they tear apart a body, just below my feet. I look over the edge of the cold metal of the Cornucopia, and see myself, being mauled by mutts. But these mutts started to change. Mutating into Peacekeepers, tearing at my naked flesh. Instead of turning to run away from these monsters, I sit down and let my legs dangle over the edge of the Cornucopia and continue to watch myself get torn apart.

"You shouldn't give up that easily." I spin around and see Prim approaching. She joins me and lets her feet dangle along with mine.

"But there are too many of them. No matter what I do, I'm dead." To further illustrate my point, I nock an arrow and loose it into the back of one of the Mutt Peacekeepers. It violently reacts, spewing blood from its wound and its mouth. When it collapses, it melts into the ground with a hiss. Seconds later, a blue halo appears and another mutation is extracted, taking the other's place consuming my flesh.

We watch in silence while the other me begs for death. I nock another arrow, and send it into my throat. It's not the way I would have liked, but it silences my screams and the mutts retreat.

I turn to my sister to gauge her reaction. "See, when I die, it will be better." She turns and points back to my body. Flowers have begun to grow outwards like an aura. I am no longer a pile of torn flesh, but in an odd black uniform, covered in feathers. Peeta appears under my dangling feet and kneels next to my dead self. Then Gale. Then Haymitch. My mother, Hazel, Cinna, even Effie. Townsfolk fill in the gaps and I can no longer see myself through the crowd. Suddenly I reappear. They have lifted me up and begin walking away.

I let out a sigh of affirmation, but it quickly turns into a gasp as firebombs explode on us. Hovercrafts and Peacekeepers fill in, destroying everyone I know, everyone I love.

"You should wake up now."

Blood rushes back to my head and I come-to as his grip loosens. I take another deep breath, slipping my pin inside my cheek. I gag and cough, my head pounds even harder. I am relieved when he stops and pulls his hips away. Did he realize what he has done? Maybe he has had his fill. I soon figure out he hasn't, and I silently curse my sister for waking me for the finale.

His hand releases my thigh and his fingers slide down to my raw flesh making me shake again. He looks down as he slips in two fingers, then looks back at me as he thrusts them in as far as he can. My feet try to move and push me away, but his gloved hand takes hold of my hair again. He presents his two fingers and hovers them above my face. They were red and glossy. The games haven't even started yet, and I'm already bleeding. My head is still fuzzy from coming-to, and I haven't had the chance to take into account what his tactile display means. For all I know, he is tearing me apart from the inside out.

He looks at his fingers in admiration, but then his smile fades away. Thread looks back and me and says, "I guess it won't be a white wedding after all." The realization floods through my mind. He has already taken what little freedom I have earned by becoming a Victor, and now, the last thread of innocence I have left. Before I can spit my pin in his face, he covers my mouth again, this time with the hand that no longer smells of leather and grease, but of blood. My blood. My body gives up trying to fight back as he dips back inside.

White wedding. White. I think of Cinna's beautiful drawings, the white fabrics thrown about my room as we talk on the phone of happier times. White, like snow. Like, Snow. The sent of blood finds its way into my memories. Blood and roses.

Thread's hips start to buck forcefully. His breathing catches, his grip tightens in my hair. A sigh quivers past his lips and he stops. When he makes his exit, my insides continue to throb.

"Mockingjay. . ." he grumbles, ". . .more like a dead sparrow." He gets up and crosses the room to the chair that I laid my jacket on. I hear fabric ruffling, buckles being clasped, a cleared throat, and finally, "My men will escort you back home. I hope you have learned your lesson?"

I turn my head to look once more at the towering statue, just the same as when I first saw him in my home. I somehow manage to find myself and prop up on one elbow, lean over and spit the brass into my hand. I take a moment to look at it and think that this stupid pin, this stupid symbol, has been nothing but trouble. Then I see his white boots approach, stop briefly, and step over me as he heads towards the door. "I suggest you get yourself home. Tomorrow is a big, big day."

I hate him. I lie back down and manage to slip my pants back on, feeling the dry cotton against my wet and bruised flesh. I tie a loose knot around my waist with the recently cut drawstring. My legs are still shaking; all the strength has gone as I try to stand. I shuffle to the chair and retrieve my father's jacket. When I put it on, I pretend not to notice a shimmer of red that graced its sleeve. I make my way to the front door and before he allows me outside, he points up to a device at the top of the doorframe. I squint in the darkness and notice a small pulsing red light. "Oh, and Miss Everdeen... President Snow sends his regards."

My heart stops and my knees buckle.

A strong, gloved hand grabs my arm before I can hit the floor. The door opens and I am pushed outside into the arms of more white armor. I was wrong, the games have already begun, and Snow has front row seats. I should have known this wasn't just a power hungry prick of a Peacekeeper. I've seen those before.

"Ahem..." I look up at the dark visor closest to me. He tilts his head and releases one of my arms, and clears his throat again. When I look down, I see that my pants have slipped down around my thighs. I synch them up and gather the waistband in one hand, holding it up, not trusting another knot. I don't dare look up again.

I hear Thread mumble some things to his men before he goes. On command, his men start walking, and push me into their formation. In my daze, the sound of boots crunching along the dirt is all I can hear. no longer the work crews clanging away. I wipe my eyes and nose in attempts to clean my face of any humiliation as we walk through the town, back to the Victor's Village. By the time we reach the gateway, all but two of the men disappear, and I am left to walk the remaining fifty feet to my door alone. I look back to the men and realize they won't be leaving anytime soon.


	3. Broken

**_AN: _**_Beta by the lovely Estoma._

* * *

The heavy door groans as I open it, pleading with it to be quiet. If anyone wakes up, I will surely break for good. Before closing the door, I peek outside, towards the two men at the Village's entrance. One turns and looks at me for a moment, then turns away and hangs his head. I wonder if I know the man behind the dark visor and if he knows what happened to Darius.

I force myself upstairs. My thighs ache and my knees are still shaking. For a moment, I linger in the hallway and stare at my mother's door. A pain tears through my chest, knowing I can't go to her. Since my father died, I had to be the strong one. For once, I want to drop the weight I have been carrying for the past five years. For once, I want to curl up in her arms and let her make the bad things go away. I then look at Prim's door a few feet away, and the pain moves from my chest into my throat. All of the fear that I feel about going back into the Games moves to her being left behind within Thread's reach. I force myself to move before I completely lose it.

The sharp pains from my insides make me take short, staggering steps to my room. I place my father's jacket and my mockingjay pin on the foot of the bed and shuffle to the bathroom. Before turning on the light, I take a deep breath, not ready to face myself in the mirror. My hands grip the counter, and my eyes slowly find my reflection. Dirt, dried blood and tears smudge my cheeks, my hair frayed from its braid. Suddenly I am back on the hovercraft, being lifted out of the arena, staring at my feral reflection. Stunned, I back away from the mirror and knock against the wall. The impact brings me back. Pressure starts to build in my chest and pushes its way into my throat, but I can't allow myself to be heard. I turn and grab a towel, bunch it up into my mouth and scream as I sink to the floor and cry.

"It's just a part of their games," I whisper into the tear soaked towel. "They made me kill people in their games..." I clear my throat. "And I was..." My head still throbbing. "R-raped..." I mutter the word so quietly, I can barely hear myself. I force myself to continue. "...raped, because of their games. And tomorrow, it starts all over again." A fresh tear cuts through the grime on my face.

I take another deep breath and slowly disrobe while I wait for the shower to heat up. My back, legs and bottom are filthy from the dusty floor. A blueprint of where Thread's fingers had been shows themselves like a love note on a foggy bathroom mirror. My mind had slipped in and out of reality during his act of punishment; I slowly discover other places where his hands ventured. My ass and hip reveal red welts, my breast begins to develop purple and blue bruises.

I can't bring myself to look at the worst of it. I step into the scalding hot water and close my eyes. My hands gently and slowly wash away the evidence of the assault between my legs. I try to shake the image of Thread's fingers hovering above my face. I keep my eyes shut tight, I don't want to see how much he hurt me. But the images stay, and I watch again as his white hair glows in the dim light, sweat beading across his brow. The look on his face before he...

My eyes shoot open and I grab the soap, producing as much lather as my hands can hold. My fingers ignore the shocks of pain as they try to remove all remnants of Thread from inside me. After about five cycles of washing and rinsing, I begin scrubbing the rest of my body. If Flavius and Octavia were here with their weird concoctions, I doubt even that would even rid me of his doings.

When I feel I have successfully removed at least a layer of skin from scrubbing, I shut the water off and sit in silence. "Just another part of their stupid games," I mutter to myself again. All of Panem will be watching me tomorrow, including President Snow. As if the games weren't enough evidence of his power, I can't let him, or the people of Panem know about his recent sick display of how his laws are enforced.

"I've had victors before," Thread's words ring in my ears. What lines did they cross? There must be other duties victors acquire besides reading cue cards to the cameras. I shudder to think of brightly colored Capitol men putting their hands on me. My family already knows I have killed for them, but do they need to know every detail of how else I have kept them safe? If I don't come back - when I don't come back - will my mother and Prim be safe? Will 12 be safe? There are uprisings happening across Panem because of me. Will 12 even have a chance, especially if men like Thread are running things? All the more reason for me to make sure Peeta wins. He and Haymitch made Thread stand down when I couldn't. Peeta spoke to the other Districts for me. He was the reason the sponsors even noticed us in the games. Maybe if he wins, he can be the speaker for the Districts.

The bitter darkness that hangs outside, shifts into a mournful shade of grey as the sun hesitates to rise, afraid of the tragedies that will happen under his rays. The moon is more suited for the event, for she forever wears a face of sorrow. A blanket of clouds will block his view today, but those witness to the premiere of the calamity will feel the heat of his discontent seep through the covers.

I wrap myself in my blanket and sit in the chair by the window and watch as the townsfolk stagger from their beds, forcing themselves to do something with their precious few hours of free time before the Reaping. I imagine the bakery receiving their usual customers. The prettiest of cakes cannot lighten the gloom that must hang over the simple stone building. A few townsfolk pass by the Victor's Village gates and pause for a moment, already giving their condolences, and are shoo'd away by the two Peacekeepers.

I take my cue to get up and get ready when I see a new team of Peacekeepers make their way through the gates. The lack of color makes me wish there was a bouncy purple wig beckoning me instead.

"Fifteen minutes Miss Everdeen!" One of the Peacekeepers yells up to my window.

Even though I have witnessed their approach, my stomach drops at the announcement. I unravel myself from my quilted cocoon and start for the closet. My body protests the move from my seat. Either I go quietly, or be dragged through town in my pajamas. I have to maintain some dignity.

The pain in my abdomen has subsided slightly, but left a queer sensation of what felt like hunger pangs mixed with holding off using the bathroom for too long - but at the same time, it's completely foreign and wrong. It confused me to think of how hyped sex was, especially in the Capitol. Last year, I would overhear girls at school talk about some kind of pact; when they turned sixteen they would lose their virginity the eve of the reaping, just in case they were called to the games. I was sixteen when I was reaped, and the only possible pairing for such a pact, would have been Gale. His strong, yet gentle hands in places my prep team haven't touched, his grey eyes mirroring mine, his hunter's grace, slow and precise...

I couldn't think about that then, not when I had my mother and Prim to take care of. Starvation trumps any desire - nor can I think about that now. I have death awaiting at my doorstep, and I haven't even brushed my hair.

Moving about my bedroom, my thighs ache with every step, making my mind wander back a few years. Madge's uncle had brought along one of his horses for his weekend visit. I spotted her on one of my walks, trotting along the huge property. She looked so happy. I found myself not being jealous of her activity, but sharing her awe in being in the presence of such a glorious creature. I had seen a few horses around the district before, their sweaty manes hanging over scrawny neck muscles and jagged humps of vertebrae, struggling to break ground with rusty plows. But this particular animal, graced with Madge in its saddle, had been raised with Capitol wealth. It was all white with a tan braided mane and tail adorned with white roses. I could have watched her for hours. When she spotted my admiration, she offered me something I could only dream of. Oh, we rode for the whole afternoon, taking turns hoisting each other up onto the gigantic beast. The next day, I was almost late to school, waddling and grinning the whole way.

When I reach my bed, I look down at my father's jacket. The happy memories fall away when I see the once glossy red that tarnished the leather is now a cracked dark brown. "Just part of their games." I remind myself. I fetch the still damp towel from my shower and wipe the sleeve clean. I hold it up, dust off any other soot and carefully hang it in the closet. Despite the heat, I find a pair of pants made from thick, heavy fabric and slip a belt around my waist. The only blouse I can find that didn't have an intricate plunging neckline was a dark green sleeveless top with tiny gold buttons. I check my exposed arms for any evidence of last night and notice how toned they have become from just a few weeks of training. Panem will not see that frail girl in her mother's dress today. My body feels less vulnerable in this outfit, especially with the oversize boots that complete the ensemble.

The brass Mockingjay flickers in the light, catching my eye. My hand hovers over the pin, weighing its influence in my mind I think back to Bonnie and Twill from the woods, to the rebels in the streets bearing my symbol, to Plutarch's pocket watch. Thread may have used it to silence me, but it won't make me stand down. It may be a game to them, but this time I have a purpose. It is time to stop falling into the past, and start thinking about Peeta's future.

I pin my Mockingjay on my collar to top off my look of defiance, quickly braid my hair and open my bedroom door.

"Mom! Prim! Five minutes, we gotta get going!" I yell. No answer. I pound down the stairs, calling out again. "Mom? Prim?" I run through the kitchen, dining room and finally into the living room. I find the front door slightly ajar. I yank it open, expecting to find my mother on the other side. Instead, a group of Peacekeepers are assembled on the front porch. The sight of their white uniforms sends an uneasy ache through my chest.

"It's time," one says and gestures to the gateway with his rifle. The others follow suit and clear a path for me.

"Where's my mother? My sister? I thought they would walk with me?" I ask, craning my neck to look around the officers.

"We have to go now." The first one says. I start to protest, refusing to move until I see my mother when one puts his hand on my arm. I flinch and pull away, stepping backwards into another Peacekeeper's hard Kevlar vest. I spin around and take a defensive stance. Floor boards creek under the weight of the men as they encircle me. Everywhere I look, I see tinted visors, reflecting my frightened face.

"Goddamnit, where's my mom?! Don't touch me! Prim! Mom! Back off!" I need room. I need air. Why aren't they listening? Gloved hands reach out to restrain me. I grab hold of one white vest as leverage as I kick another in the side of his knee. A snap rings out followed by a muffled cry from underneath the helmet. I bring my boot back and knee the first in the groin, sending him down next to his partner. Before I can turn to fend off the others, I am thrown backwards down the steps onto the walkway, sliding at least five feet on my back. The remaining men hoist their guns to their shoulders and quickly make their way after me.

"Just tell me where my mother is!" I raise my hands in surrender. "That's all I want to know!"

One turns back to his fallen comrade who is on his knees, head on the ground, holding his crotch, "Sir, what do you want us to do with her?" Groans and obscenities answer.

"Get away from her! Goddamnit, that's enough!" A voice rings out from across the way. I turn my head and see an upside down Haymitch running into my yard. "Katniss, your mom and Prim are already at the square. It's some new procedure shit they got goin' on. C'mon, guys, if you would get your heads out of each other's asses and answer the poor girl, this wouldn't have happened!"

The unfortunate guard who received my knee to his balls rolls over and throws his helmet off. "Gha, you fucking bitch! Oh god... I thought Thread knocked some sense into you!"

I speak up before any other details are spilled. If Haymitch finds out about what Thread did, we'd both be shot right here in the yard. "I'll go! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Just let me go!"

The guns don't move. Their captain stands up, still gripping his cod piece. "She's interfered with a Peacekeeper... again. She should get the firing squad!" I almost welcome a firing squad at this point. But then I think of Peeta; he needs all the help he can get.

"Guys, c'mon," Haymitch says coolly with outstretched arms. "It's the Quarter Quell!" emphasizing the words as if he, himself, were Ceasar Flickerman. "She's gettin' reaped in less than an hour. Give the people their monies worth, eh?"

The men shift slightly, awaiting their orders. The captain gives one last tug and spits on the porch. "Get her out of here." Without skipping a beat, I jump up and take my place next to my mentor and the remaining men fall into formation around us. As we start walking, I look back at the captain pacing on the porch, watching us march away.

"I hope a Career rips your tits off!" he calls after me, spitting again. I turn back and a smile creeps across my face.

Haymitch starts up with another one of his lectures, "I'm gettin' real tired of savin' your ass. I was joking last time when I said you weren't all that bright. Now I am starting to believe it."

"Last time, I swear. Now it's time to save his." I point to Peeta a few yards ahead of us at the main gate of the Village with his own escorts. There is a frantic look in his eyes. I hadn't noticed he had witnessed the scuffle.

"Katniss! My god, are you okay?" He pulls me into a tight embrace. The cameras aren't set up here, he must be warming up, because this almost feels genuine. "I tried to help, but they wouldn't let me through."

"I'm fine, really." I pull away from his grasp, glancing at his scared, boyish eyes. It is the same look he gave me in the cave when my face was covered in blood. Maybe he was being genuine after all. Before I can explain, our shepherds move us to the square.

"Welcome, welcome!" A golden Effie makes her traditional introductions.


	4. Red

It feels like two heart beats between the time Effie called my name and I am seated on the train, watching as the last bit of everything I know and love being ripped away one railroad tie at a time. My foot taps anxiously on the luscious red carpet as my hands wring a pristine silk napkin. Gale wasn't at the reaping. Even if he was, there would have been no time to hint at any extra precautions needed to keep Prim safe. I will be a world away and the Capitol can still find ways to use her against me.

"Katniss?" Peeta appears in the doorway with a solemn look. His blue eyes encased in soft pink, swollen lids. I hate myself every time I am reminded I am not the only one affected by this so called national tradition. I watched Peeta's teary eyed mother grip her remaining sons tight as he volunteered. He could have let Haymitch stand beside me, saving his mother from the dreaded sounds of cannons, saving her from ever opening the little wooden box which contains just enough money for a burial. Her over-zealous maternal display must have been a little too late because Peeta never took his eyes from me. He was burning that loaf of bread all over again, right in front of her.

"You okay?" he says softly, afraid to enter the quiet cabin.

"I guess. It's so hard leaving them behind again with no goodbyes, you know?"

Peeta takes a step forward, mouth quivering. "I mean from earlier. Those Peacekeepers-"

"Oh, that. I'm fine. For some reason they took my mom and Prim before I was ready to go. Didn't even hear them leave."

"Katniss," he pauses to swallow. "They came and got your mom and Prim last night, while you were gone." I feel my heart stop and contract, twisting in my chest - for which revelation it aches for, I do not know. I turn away and look out the window, watching the shades of green flutter past and pray he doesn't see my eyes well up from the images of Thread with Prim in our old house flashing in my mind. My mouth turns sour with the threat of rising bile.

_Where did they take them? What did they do to them? Because of my carelessness, I put them in danger. I deserved Thread's punishment._

"I... I didn't know." I clear my throat. "How did you-?"

_What did you see, exactly? Me holding my torn pants up as I was escorted to my door?_

I hold my breath and wait for him to reveal what he knows.

"I couldn't sleep. I heard Peacekeepers outside and I tried to check on you, but I was _advised_ to lock my door and mind my own business. They took them before I saw you walking back to your house. What happened last night?"

_I got drunk and Thread raped and almost killed me._

I slowly let the air pass my lips. "I forgot my pin," I say as my fingers find the token on my collar. I blink away my tears and look back at him. "I went back to my old place, and they said I was out after curfew. That's all." President Snow and I agreed to never lie to each other, something I can never do for Peeta. It is my fault we are going back to the Games. I cannot burden him with my sins.

His eyebrows knit together and his hands flex open and closed.

"That's all? They didn't hurt you?"

_Of course he hurt me. I was raped!_

"No," I let a nervous laugh conceal the lie. "Not at all. Maybe roughed me up a bit." I wring the napkin around my fingers, giving a hard twist. "Think about it, recent Victors going right back into the Games. They can't risk having the Capitol favorites run off before the Quarter Quell, you know?" I may not be as convincing as Haymitch, but Peeta seems to relax.

_The games have already begun, Peeta... you just don't know it yet._

My gaze returns to the passing scenery. "I just wish they could have let us say goodbye."

"We'll write letters, Katniss."

* * *

Peeta and I are left with another night with little or no sleep. Watching the previous Games and Haymitch's victory stole away the few hours we had before arriving in the Capitol. We are grateful for the lack of fanfare as we exit the train in an underground access point to our new home. Opening ceremonies start tomorrow afternoon, plenty of time for Caesar to fill out the day with back stories and updates of those on this year's roster.

Effie has been non-stop since the train came to a halt, going on about the new high tech training center and accommodations. Lethargy makes it impossible to listen to, let alone care, what she is saying. Although, I have to admit, the new elevator does impress me with its speed and style as it takes us up to the 12th floor of the Tribute Towers.

The only other thing Effie says that I truly care about is that today is for getting settled. No cameras, no crowds, no waxing, just time to rest and get our 'beauty sleep.' Today is _her_ big, big day, going over every detail of every schedule for the next few weeks. We leave her on the elevator to descend back into her world of mingling and paper work while Avoxes point the way to our respective rooms.

"See you in a minute?" Peeta asks, before opening the door across the hall from mine.

I nod and give a tired smile. I eagerly await the chance to curl up in his arms again since the moment Effie came running through the train shouting about how excited she was to finally be back in the Capitol. For the first time since the Victory Tour, I desperately needed his embrace and comfort while my strength to keep it together was quickly fading. My eyes ache from staring at the projections of violence all night and the pains in my abdomen have shifted into an odd, dull heat almost fever-like, wrapping around to my lower back. Even though I found comfort in Peeta's arms, sitting on the floor all night has left me cramped and stiff.

"Sorry Effie, I'll _admire_ the room later." I kick my shoes off at the doorway and make my way straight for the bed. I slip my pants off before I retreat under the fresh soft blanket, sinking into the mattress and pillow. I turn over and watch the front door and my eyelids grow heavy.

_I'll just listen for Peeta._

* * *

I feel the bed shift and bounce slightly, rousing me from my nap. "What took you so long?" I say, relishing the warmth that rests behind me.

"Being a stowaway is harder than it looks." My eyes pop open and I turn to see Gale.

"Oh my god, Gale! You could have been killed!" I roll over and wrap my arms around his strong shoulders and breathe in his musky scent of coal and pine as my fingers trace his shoulder blades under his thermal shirt. After a moment I pull away and stare into his grey Seam eyes.

"Hey Catnip," he whispers and pushes aside a strand of loose hair from my face then rests his palm along my cheek, his thumb brushes away a fallen tear.

"I wanted to say goodbye, but the Peaceke-" I start to say, but he silences me with his lips. He tastes of oranges. "I've missed you," I say as I pull away from him. I start to speak again but my breath catches in my throat. I am suddenly hit with a new wave of emotion that shakes my entire body. "G-Gale...I'm scared." I try and steady my breath, "I don't want to go back. Last year was different, it's not fair that I have to go back." Gale shushes me quietly as he strokes my hair. "I just- I want to go home. The next time you will see me, I'll be in a box."

Hurt washes over Gale's face and I kick myself for saying that. No wonder why my life is dictated by cue cards.

"That's why I had to see you. At least one more time." He rests his forehead against mine for a moment then meets my lips again. This kiss is different, softer, full of electricity and fire. I was ready to leave him behind forever, but for whatever reason, he is here now - breathing life into my dying embers. He parts my lips with his and his tongue flickers across mine, sending a wave of tingling sparks through my center. In the woods he is swift and stealthy with purpose, which also holds true in the bedroom. Before I can take a breath, he positions himself above me, hands beside my shoulders, never allowing his tongue to stray from mine. Just as his presence in my room is unexpected, I give in to the heat that is above me and let the world around me disappear.

My hands run through his hair down around his neck and to his shoulders, letting my fingers discover the new topography. His hands follow suit and make their own explorations; first from my cheek, to the nape of my neck and oh so gently, cups my breast, circling his thumb around my nipple. There is no hesitation in his movements and his confidence shadows any doubt I have to finally allow myself to give in to his desires. A sigh escapes from my lips and I take a deep breath, pushing myself deeper into his grasp. I break away from his kiss and turn my head, coyly offering his lips to the rest of myself. He plunges into my neck to taste and breathe me in. The sensation from his lips on my neck create sparks that work their way down to my center, which now aches for his touch.

I hate myself for not answering his kiss back in the woods those many months ago. I hate myself for never allowing myself to let him in. I hate myself for never allowing myself to love him back. Now is my chance to make it up to him, to make up for the fact that Peeta has taken his place._  
_

"Oh shit, Peeta." I look towards the door. "He's supposed to be here any second."

"Peeta? How is he going to find us out here?" Gale asks. I turn and look at him hover above me with blue skies behind him and I suddenly feel grass prickle against my bare thighs. The seclusion of our woods sends a wave of serenity over me. I breathe in the scent of pine and fresh air and the thought of Peeta drifts away with the cool breeze from the lake.

My hands work between us, gripping the thermal and bringing it up to his shoulders. He sits up on his knees and tosses the shirt aside. When I move my hand across his stomach to his chest, memorizing every ripple of flesh covering the muscles abused by the mines, he remains still. I turn my hand over and let my nails graze his skin and watch as goosebumps appear in their wake. I sit up and start to pull up my shirt until he stops me.

"Please," he whispers and I let him lift the fabric over my head as his eyes study me with the same intensity he gets when tracking his prey. When my bra is thrown among the shirts, I see the hunger in his eyes and crash into his lips again. I suck and tug at his bottom lip, drawing out his sweet moans. He shifts his knees between mine and a strong hand cradles my head as he lays me back down in the grass, using the other to pull my hips closer to his. He leans down and kisses me again as I wrap my arms around his neck. When Gale dips his fingers under the waistband of my panties, my breath catches and I slowly lift my hips up, sliding myself over his middle digit. He touches me with such dexterity, I shiver and rise again. I can't believe how fast this is moving, but at the same time, I don't care. With every stroke of his finger, the stress and fear I have pent up, begins to fade away.

"Gale," I moan into his lips, "I'm so sorry. I was so stupid before. I should have -"

"Shhh. I know." This time his fingers slide inside and my mind forgets the past. Slow and gradual at first until they find their rhythm, causing me to grip his neck tighter and cry out into his chest. He rocks back and lowers his head to tease my nipple with his tongue and teeth, giving it a gentle pull. I wrap my hands around his head and press him into my chest as I weave my fingers into his thick hair. He works his fingers in and out, up and over my swollen flesh and slips back, deep inside my soaked center. Each time drops me deeper and deeper into a pit full of orange bubbles.

"Gale, please, hard-" He obliges before I can finish the words. Soon he is moving with my heartbeat - just as hard, just as fast. My toes curl around the blades of grass, my knee rubs against his ribs. I shut my eyes as the sparks start to ignite.

A loud crack rings through the air and Gale's heavy body sinks into mine and stills.

"Gale?" Heat spreads between our torsos and drips down my sides. I am stricken with panic as I try to move him.

"Oh god, Gale? GALE!" My hands slip off his shoulders with each shove.

After wriggling and twisting, I manage to slide him off and roll him over. All of the color that was in his face is now seeping from his chest. When I touch him, I immediately pull away when I leave a red streak behind. My hands, arms, chest - my whole body is now covered in his blood.

"No, no, nononono... wha-? GALE!" My screams echo against the hill and are soon called back by Jabberjays.

"GALE! GALE! GALE!" They cry. I swear they were laughing. "GALE! NO! GALE! GALE!"

"STOP IT!" I scream and cover my ears.

When a shadow falls across Gale, I drop my hands and spin around. A tall white statue of a man stands against the ray of sunlight, holding a pistol.

"Red is a much better color on you."

* * *

I come up swinging and screaming, still calling out for Gale. Peeta's face slowly appears from a sea of red. He's mouthing something, but my ears are ringing.

"-r awake now... -t a dream... -kay... -ur okay. It's over now, just a dream. Shhh, shhh." Peeta had come in, as promised, curled up beside me on top of the blankets. He cups my cheek in his hand, reciting his speech he developed when my nightmares came.

"Peeta? It's you?" His blue eyes track mine and for a moment, I wish they were grey. "He killed him, Peeta," I spit out. "Right there, he killed Gale! There was so much blood!" I start to shake and sob uncontrollably. Peeta wraps me in his arms and lets me cry.

When the light outside fades to a deep orange, I allow myself to break free from Peeta's grasp, wipe the tears and snot from my face and profusely apologize.

"You really care about him. I know how hard it is for you leaving him behind, again," Peeta says softly. I look up, ready to lie again, and see a big red welt forming along his jaw.

"Oh no, Peeta. Did I hit you?" I run through my apologies again, holding my hand over the welt.

"It's fine. I'm fine. It was a bad dream, that's all. Although it didn't sound all that bad to begin with." My eyes widen and I feel my face turn red. "I mean, you were breathing funny, and - " he clears his throat, "talking in your sleep." _Oh my god... what did he hear? _He runs his hand through my sweat soaked hair and frowns. "You're hot. Are you sure you're alright?" I nod, concentrating on suppressing my embarrassment. "Let me get you some water."

As he leaves the bedroom, my gut cramps and twists. The dream has left me flushed and nauseous and even though the heat between my legs has faded I still felt oddly warm and sticky so I sit up and peel back the covers. Panic and confusion floods through me as I see a spot of blood pooling on the sheets.

Peeta, glass in hand, stops in the doorway when he sees me throw the covers back over my lap. I tuck my knees up and bundle as much of the blanket around me, hiding everything from my chin down.

"Katniss, what happened?" He takes a step towards me. Worry washes over his face.

"No, don't!" My mind races, looking for help, looking for the right thing to say. My throat cramps and tears burn my eyes with the realization that the only person I want is my mother and the only option is her polar opposite.

"Get Effie."


	5. Special Day

_**AN: **_Big shout out to AprilLittle for the beta and helping me work out this chapter.__

* * *

Fluorescent lights hum and flicker above me in the cold examination room. A stout, green-haired man in a white coat, sits across from me, ticking off little boxes on a digital note pad while he sips his coffee. I take a strand of my freshly washed and perfumed hair and pull it under my nose, hoping to block any scent of his robust, black beverage.

"How long have you been experiencing pain in your abdomen," Dr. Antyllus asks, never looking up from his form.

I clear my throat, "About two days."

"And you say this is your first menstruation?"

"Y-yes," I respond, chewing nervously on the side of my thumb.

I had showered and paced my room for almost a half an hour, waiting for Effie. I was convinced Thread had hurt me far worse than I had thought and I was in fact, dying. When Effie arrived, she was livid that I had interrupted her meeting with _The_ Silenus Agon, the mentor from District 1 who had championed more Victors than any other District. She was mid-sentence about one of Silenus' philosophies when she noticed how uninterested I was in her story - sitting on the couch, knees tucked under my chin, visibly shaking. Through tears, I described my pains and of course, the blood. She then surprised me with a hug. Not sympathetic, but more congratulatory. It wasn't until she went on about how I had _finally become a woman_, did it occur to me that Mother Nature had decided that this was the perfect time to present me with this. . ."_gift_". With each one of Effie's hugs and squeals, the worry and shock melted into embarrassment from my overreaction. She then suggested I pay a visit to Dr. Antyllus for a check-up, even though bleeding profusely from the most awkward of places was _perfectly natural._

"Sexually active?"

I shift in my seat on top of the padded table, crinkling the paper sheet.

_Active? Unwilling participant was more like it. I can't tell him about my recent introduction to the activity because my records might be accessible. If I lie, and say 'no', then my love story with Peeta will lose all credibility._

"Uhm, yes."

"How long?"

My mind searches for a time frame as I fidget with my long sleeves, pulling them over my knuckles.

_The engagement, that's it. When was that? The Victory Tour. . .oh god, that was so long ago._

"Weeks, months? A year? How long?" The doctor breaks into my concentration.

"A few months, I guess." _Ugh, this is embarrassing._

"Protection?"

"I'm sorry, what?" Puzzlement shows on my face.

"Prophylactics, condoms, birth control?"

"Oh! Uhm, I'm sorry. No." My face reddens in embarrassment. It never occurred to me and with District 12 being so poor, there is little money for contraceptives or education for that matter. My sexual education was accumulated from the hallway gossip at school and a particular group of coal miners as they walked to and from work. I had to cover Prim's ears on several occasions as we passed by the filthy men and their language.

Dr. Antyllus glances up at me before checking off yet another box.

"Any medication?"

"No."

"Any narcotics."

"No."

"You're seventeen, correct?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he sets the pad on his knee and finally looks up at me. "Your vitals are good, a bit of a fever, but that is expected. Starting your period this late is not uncommon, especially for girls like you from the outer Districts. Here in the Capitol, girls start as early as ten years old. I figure from your lack of proper nutrition and high levels of stress can cause the delay. But since your last Games, your diet has improved and you've gained some weight. Along with the recent sexual activity thrown in the mix, voila, you are now a woman," he says dryly before he stands up, handing me the digital pad. "Go ahead and look through this and I'll be right back."

The screen lights up with images of brightly colored illustrations depicting cartoon characters dancing around the screen accompanied by happy flashing letters, "Your Period and You! The Joys of Becoming a Woman!" I groan and throw the device down beside me on the table and rub my forehead. I am slightly annoyed at the fact that girls, ten year old Capitol girls, have matured faster than me. They are lucky that is the only blood they will see.

The doctor returns and gives me some blue pills and a small paper cup of water.

"These should relieve your pain. I will have the nurse set you up with some more on your way out. Hold out your arm for me please?" I swallow the pill and lift my left arm. He takes my wrist in his hand and presses a needle into the inside of my bicep. I suck air between my teeth and wince.

"What was that?" I ask, rubbing my arm.

"Medroxacyclen. Birth control. Good stuff, lasts five years, leaving you completely sterile." He turns and disposes of the syringe in a small orange container next to the sink.

"What? Why?" I am already irritable from Effie's behavior earlier, and now, confusion sinks in on top of an already awkward doctor's visit.

"Minor precautions, Miss Everdeen. There have been incidences in the past," he says as he turns around to face me and leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest.

I do remember one year involving such an incident. I was about ten years old, watching with my mother. The Games were well into their third week, so the initial violence and gore had lost its shocking effect, enough that we were eating dinner during that evening's broadcast. It wasn't until a female tribute had been beaten and stripped completely nude, that my mother suddenly remembered I had homework to do outside on the porch. The next day, with the conclusion of the Games, replays of the victory were aired nonstop. The girl had snuck up on her assailant after the attack and ran him clean through with his spear while he was standing lakeside taking a leak. A year later, she was back in the Capitol retelling her story to Caesar - with an infant on her lap.

"Why give me the shot now? Why not last year?" I narrow my eyes at him. If this is protocol, it wouldn't matter if I started my period or not. If any of the girls from the Seam were like me in delayed development, that didn't stop them from getting pregnant. Callie Hayes, a girl from school two years ahead of me, was fifteen when she dropped out to tend to her newly acquired duties as a mother.

"Like I said, really just a minor precaution. Tributes under the age of sixteen are less of a risk." I immediately think back to the list Peeta and I compiled of the recent pool of victors - Finnick Odair was the youngest at fourteen and the youngest female was fifteen. My mouth twitches at the weight of the discussion. "We don't administer the shot unless female tribute has begun menstruating," he continues, "as to relieve her of the, uhm, _symptoms_ should her cycle sync with the Games." He pushes himself away from the counter and picks up the digital device sitting next to me. He taps and swipes his fingers across the screen looking for another information program. "The medro will delay your next period for about another four months. So, one less thing to worry about, right?" When he looks up, his smirk disappears when he notices my scowl.

"But I will be dead in one month!"

I jump off the table in a mixture of anger and exasperation, sending him wheeling back on his tiny stool as I storm out of the office and down the hall. A tiny, pink-haired woman stands by the exit, holding out a small paper bag with a smile. "Here you go, Sweetheart-" I slap the bag out of her hand as I stomp past her, spilling feminine products and pills to the floor.

I yell angrily at no one and everyone as I kick through the exit of the Health Center.

* * *

I retreat back to my room and slam the door behind me. I begin to pace and swear as I rub my face with my hands. Receiving the shot isn't what set me off, I would have welcomed the idea back home when I had a future with no children in mind, but the fact that he kept pressing the long term effects of it upset me. Everyone has been treating me with such optimism, I want to grab them by the collar and slap some sense into them. Last year, no one even looked at me until my score was posted by the Gamemakers. I want the doubt again so I won't disappoint anyone when my body is lifted from the arena.

In the bedroom, I find a remote on the nightstand. This one is bigger than the one from last year, flashing a full color display of the different devices it controls. After a few taps, I find the hologram wall display and bring up a scene of a forest. This feature has improved as well, displaying an animated setting with leaves rustling in the slight breeze as grouse and sparrows cross the screen and other wildlife are heard in the distance. I settle down on the floor, lean back against the bed, tuck my knees up and take in the artificial images. I study the structure of the trees, thinking of how I would climb them. I watch as a squirrel runs along with forest floor and mentally time a release of an arrow if I had my bow. I peer into the distance and try to figure out which direction would lead me to water. I imagine Gale appear suddenly from behind a tree, breaking my concentration before loosing another arrow.

Until now, I have forgotten all about the dream. My eyebrows raise at the memory considering I have never thought of Gale like that before. Although I care for him greatly, the few kisses we shared were nothing more, than what I thought, a slightly stronger gesture of friendship. I felt horrible for what he was going through that night when he was laying on my kitchen table covered in blood. Not just from the whipping he endured, but having to sit idly by as I was forced to play out a stupid love story with Peeta. I told him I was sorry when I kissed him. I didn't say that I loved him.

I have spent plenty of time thinking of the 'what-ifs' when it comes to Gale. Maybe this particular 'what-if' dream stemmed from our plan to run away before Thread had the chance to hurt either of us. I grieve for the list of possibilities: just the two of us in the woods with plenty of time to see if my feelings for him could develop into something more. Or how Gale could have very easily been my first.

I shut off the hologram and dim the lights while I remain curled up beside the bed. The dream was right to end the way it did. My selfishness would have caught up to us, ending in a disaster. That is why I never allowed myself to feel anything more for Gale; love can blind you from the more important and dangerous things around you. Even the fake love story between Peeta and I made things worse in the long run.

The pain medication must have been stronger than I anticipated, because when I wake up, I am still on the floor with my head on my knees. Not only did I doze off suddenly, I didn't wake up screaming. I try to remember if there were any dreams at all - good or bad. Fortunately, the pain was gone but was replaced by hunger and the need to pee. I shuffle to the bathroom and click the light on and find a small brown paper bag placed next to the sink. I groan at the sight of it and close the door behind me.

* * *

Hunger leads me down the hall to where dinner will be served. I contemplate eating in my room but Peeta and Haymitch will want an explanation and proof I am alright after the sudden visit to the Health Center.

"Oh, there she is!" Effie squeals. I groan and regret my decision the moment I hear her voice as I enter the dining room. Her enthusiasm over my dilemma unfortunately is still in full swing. "How was your visit with Dr. Antyllus? You know, he was one of the doctors who worked with Peeta last year," she says and leans across the dining table, patting Peeta's hand. "He also looked in on you during your recovery. You're lucky he was here early, all of the other physicians are still getting settled. They don't typically see any tributes this soon."

"It was fine," I say, rubbing the inside of my arm. Peeta and Haymitch are already seated, working their way through an entrée of lamb. An Avox sets my portion in front of me as I take my seat. "I don't know what there is to get excited about," I say as I adjust my posture. I'm certainly not excited about the supply of products I found in the bathroom.

"So wait, you're okay? Why would seeing the doctor be exciting?" Peeta looks back and forth from Effie and me. I lower my head and grumble. Peeta leans forward with a muddled look on his face. "Huh? I don't-"

"I started my period, dumbass," I grumble again through my teeth slightly louder. I raise my eyes and give him a deadly look. He sits back suddenly, his expression shifts from shock to apologetic. I shoot back a snarky nod before I look back down at my plate.

"Katniss, _darling_. Like I said before, you've finally become a woman! A bit late...but, well, now you're all grown up!"

"Hey, enough with the girly talk, huh?" Haymitch grumbles. "I'm sure Katniss has had enough for one day." I nod in agreement and pick up my silverware, ready to fill my mouth with food to avoid anymore of this discussion.

"Well, alright then. It's a shame you don't see how special of a day it is," pouting, Effie slinks down into her chair.

"For fucksake, Effie, enough! She isn't some little girl with her whole life ahead of her! She's a goddamned tribute!" Haymitch yells, slamming his drink down on the table with a loud bang.

Effie's jaw drops and it begins to quiver. "I... I'm so sorry Katniss. I was so wrapped up...oh my." She rapidly looks around as if she suddenly forgot something. "I should... I should go," she announces while getting up and hurries out of the room. I look at Haymitch with wide eyes and his face suddenly softens. He then shakes his head, "Aw, jeez kiddo, I'm sorry. I shoudn't have-"

"No, it's okay," I sputter. "Actually, thank you for that." I laugh at the replay in my head; Effie's wide eyes and gaping mouth, for once with a loss for words. "I have been wanting to tell her the same thing all day." I release a sigh as I pick up my fork once more, "It's just another shitty thing I have to deal with I guess."

"But you're alright?" Peeta asks, setting his utensils down. I nod genuinely this time and turn my attention to the lamb on my plate. The last time I had anything to eat was on the train, and even then, it wasn't much. As I cut through the tender meat, it drips with a perfect culinary example of rare. My nose wrinkles at the sight of the blood and juices pooling onto the plate. I take a breath and put the cut of lamb in my mouth. The flavor mixed with the mint jelly relaxes me immediately and my appetite is finally willing to allow a full meal.

"I will tell you one thing though," I say, mid-chew, "that doctor was a complete prick. You don't remember a fat little guy with green hair do you, Peeta?"

"Dr. Antyllus? Oh yeah, he was only there to change my bandages and check my sutures. He acted like what he was doing was beneath him," he says, reaching under the table, rubbing his leg. I frown at his gesture, saddened at the thought that jerks like Antyllus tended to Peeta. I will never be able to imagine how scared and alone he was. I had only experienced severe malnutrition and dehydration - he lost his fucking leg. "He's probably here early doing the boring stuff like the pre-game physicals," Peeta says bringing his hand back up to his fork and swirls the remaining mint jelly around his plate.

Haymitch gets up from his chair and crosses the room to replenish his drink. "I know it's been a long day, but tomorrow is important. It's going to be your first time meeting all of the past Victors, and though some may seem friendly, it's not going to be all ponies and flowers. Be nice and get along. They don't know you like they know each other, so don't give them any reasons to _want_ to kill you." I look up at Haymitch while I work through another bite of lamb. "And you, Missy, keep it simple. I don't want another riot breaking out. Let Peeta do the talking if you have to." He was right to remind me of my lack of skills in obtaining friends and the ability to say the wrong thing. Haymitch raises his glass to his mouth and pauses, "and it would be best to keep your special day to yourself." He smirks and throws back the entire contents of the glass in one swig. He shakes his head and whistles as he admires the empty glass in his hand.

"Gladly," I say as I stab the remaining bits of meat with my fork.

Haymitch sets the glass on the table and heads for the door. "Now, if you will excuse me, I've got a card game to get to." Peeta raises his fingers in a small wave as Haymitch makes his exit. We finish the rest of our meal in silence.

"I've got my notes if you want to go over them tonight," Peeta finally speaks up after taking a sip of water. He leans back in his chair, his closed mouth twists and puckers as his tongue runs over the front of his teeth.

"That's okay, I trust you," I say, sliding my empty plate away. "Haymitch is right; we'll be better off with you doing the talking. I don't feel very sociable, especially after I knocked Antyllus on his ass."

Peeta raises an eyebrow and a slight smile creeps across his mouth, "What?"

I cover my face and groan, "It was so stupid! He gave me a shot." I hold out my arm and point to the injection site.

"So?"

"Medroxa-something, it's a kind of birth control. Can you believe it?" My hands go up in disgust.

Peeta's eyebrows scrunch in confusion, "I don't understand."

"Remember that girl from District 5?"

"Oh," he manages before dropping his eyes. I excused myself from the room that night, before the prologue to the victory. My stomach dropped when I realized which year we were watching and began to shift nervously in my seat on the floor next to Peeta. When he looked over at me, I got up and used the excuse of having to go the bathroom. By the time I made it to the bathroom, I was shaking and my palms were slick with sweat. I flicked the light on and made myself look in the mirror. "Just a part of their games," I repeated my new mantra to myself quietly. I washed my hands and shook them out, trying to rid myself of the tremors. On the way back, I stopped by the food car to kill some more time, unsure of how long that particular scene lasted. When it had first aired, I was outside studying a list of words for a spelling test. When I returned with two fresh cups of cocoa and some raspberry cookies, Peeta was sitting on the floor next to the video screen, looking down at the tape in his hands. When I asked him how it ended, he just shrugged his shoulders and said it was the girl from 5 that had won.

"That's only part of it. Really, it's meant to - _relieve me of any burden having a period may cause during the Games_." I say with a low dumb version of my Capitol voice. "What get's me," I clear my throat, "is he wouldn't shut up about the long term _benefits._ He and Effie need to look at a calendar and see the big red circle around the day that says 'Hunger Games'." I lean forward and set my elbows on the table, resting my forehead in my hands.

"Did you get a shot last year?" Peeta asks.

"Hm?" I look back up at him. "No, it was something about not being sexually ac- mature yet." I hold my breath, hoping he didn't catch my mistake. "I also wasn't _old enough."_ I conclude with the dumb voice. Peeta tilted his head and shifted his jaw, also slightly confused by the doctor's logic. Before he can speak again, I scoot my chair back and push myself up from the table. "I have to try and get some sleep. See you tomorrow at the ceremony?" He gives me a faint smile and nod. As I make my way to the door, I yell back to the dining room, "You won't have any trouble finding me, I'll be the one making friends with the horses."

* * *

The next morning, I take my place in the center of the room dressed in a simple bathrobe. Flavius, Octavia and Venia clatter about setting up their concoctions and contraptions to prep me for Cinna. My head is groggy from the blue pills, but I am no longer experiencing the dull ache in my center.

"Alright, darling, let's see how these last few months have treated you! Venia, get the artillery ready!" Flavius steps in front of me and I drop the robe, creating a white pool of fabric around my feet.

"Oh, honey!" Flavius lets out a gasp and my eyes shoot up to see him staring at my body. Octavia and Venia step behind him and follow his gaze.

"What? What happened?" I cover my breasts self-consciously with my hands. _Oh shit, the bruises._ Octavia giggles and bumps Flavius with her shoulder and says, "Looks like someone likes it rough! I don't blame you, Sweetie, with the games and all, gotta get it while you can! Am I right?" I feel my face grow hot and return my gaze to the floor.

Venia starts to whimper, "Oh, it's such a shame! We should be getting you ready to walk down the aisle, not into another arena!" This gets Flavius' lip to tremble and Octavia grabs for tissues. I look up at the ceiling and sigh again, thinking how ridiculous it is to be standing naked in a room full of blubbering idiots. After an hour, I am grateful to finally have my robe back and to be sitting across from Cinna.

"Cinna, may I ask you something?"

"Anything," he says, sitting back in his chair and setting his glass of tea on the table next to him.

"Have you ever been in love?" I sit back, nervously tucking my knees up.

He smiles and replies with a light chuckle,"Why do you ask?"

I bury my face in my knees, "I don't know... this whole thing with me and Peeta. I'm not sure if I am doing it right," I say as I lift my head slightly, peering back at him over my knees.

"Once," he says plainly as he crosses his right leg over his left and laces his fingers on top of his knee. "It was back when I was going to art school; I spent time in District 8 learning about the textile industry. There was this girl, Aemilia, a singer at a local cafe I frequented. She was gorgeous and very simple, whereas I was eager to get my hands on every upcoming style. If you think these Capitol people are outrageous, you should have seen me then."

I chuckle and sit up, eager for him to continue.

"Everyday, I would go to see her, yet she didn't seem to see me. I finally worked up the courage to ask her to join me for some coffee after her set, but she turned me down for being Capitol scum. I was devastated. I realized that I loved her for who she was, and she hated me for who I was pretending to be. I wasn't a Capitol hot shot, just a dumb fashion student. The next day, she barely recognized me without the blue wig and studded pants."

I smile at the thought of him dressed as Caesar, wooing a girl.

"I brought her a white lace scarf that my mother had given me. I thanked her for reminding me why I got into fashion in the first place. It wasn't supposed to be about loud colors and meaningless shapes for the sake of awe. It's meant to bring out the inner beauty a person already has."

"Well, did it work?" I ask, leaning forward expectantly.

"It did. Those were the best four months of my life. I've never met anyone like her since," he says, unraveling his fingers and setting his hands on the arm rests. He drops his eyes and presses his lips together.

"What happened," I ask quietly.

"Her brother was reaped," he answers, looking at me with a sadness that shatters my heart. "After the Games, she killed herself."

"I'm so sorry, Cinna," I reach over to take his hand.

He shakes his head and waves me off. "No, it's alright. It was ages ago." He pauses and looks back at me. "She hated everything the Capitol stood for and how they made her brother into something he wasn't. And that is why," he stands up and stretches his arms out, "I have vowed to make sure you, stay you." I wipe away a falling tear before I stand up and hug him.

He wraps his arms around me and whispers in my ear, "There will always be a fire inside of you. Don't you ever let anyone extinguish it. And love? Love will only make it burn brighter."

"Thank you," I whisper back and pull away from his embrace, wiping my eyes with both hands. "So, what are we wearing for the opening ceremonies?"


	6. Allies

Soft shadows dance and flicker around my room, created by my glowing suit of artificial embers. My sleeping quarters are still foreign and mostly untouched, save the bed. The light catch the odd shapes of the decor and transform what little I recognize into an entirely new setting. I drop my eyes to my lap, away from the unfamiliar creatures conjured by the dim light and focus on the fine details of the low pulsing flame. I push myself back into my old home in 12, when the cold nights and hunger kept me awake, curled up next to the small hearth pleading with the damp twigs to stay lit until morning. Back in 12, survival only depended on well placed snare lines and arrows. Becoming a Victor eliminated the anxiety of scrounging up something to eat and burning furniture to stay warm. Becoming a Victor also outweighed the positive attributes: a man in 11 was killed, Darius was now an Avox, 12 was in Thread's clutches and Peeta and I are going back into the arena. Thankfully, now that I am in the Capitol, Snow's attention is here, away from Prim. His use of Darius as yet another reminder of his power makes me crave the taste of Nightlock. How many more will have to fall because of me? What else do I have, besides my own life, that Snow wants? The only thing I have left is Peeta - and his victory will not be taken from me. Even though Peeta's words after this morning's opening ceremony left me rethinking the plans to ensure his survival.

_"You're so . . . pure," _he said. Everyone is so confident in me, and now, they think I'm _pure. _How could I be when I have killed people? Or had my innocence torn away on a dusty kitchen floor? Peeta and Cinna were right about the Capitol; they are molding me into something I'm not.

The next day, Haymitch expands on his lecture, telling us we not only have to play nice, but make allies. When Peeta and I split up in the training center, I discover the knot tying station and find the activity almost meditative. Working my way through the assortment of knots, increasing in difficulty, I relax and push aside the events from the last few days. The coarse ropes rub across my fingers, leaving them pink in places where callouses have no purpose. An hour or so passes when the difficulty of the knots exceed my abilities and a new kind of frustration takes over. Suddenly, my annoyance turns to curiosity when my left ear twitches at the sound of soft footsteps approaching. My breath stalls and my hands still when someone puts their arms around me from behind; taking the rope from my grasp and finishing the intricate threaded puzzle. I close my eyes when I hear the deep inhale of my scent just under my ear.

"So, Girl on Fire, figure out any secrets to tell me yet?"

"I already told you, 'I'm an open book.' Maybe you could enlighten me with the secrets you already know?" I cock an eyebrow as I turn and meet a pair of sea-green eyes. Finnick stands a foot taller than me and the lack of distance between us makes my chin tip higher than I want, but it adds to the snooty expression I aim for. I hope here in the training center, Finnick wouldn't just see me as just the survivor Cinna painted me as or the girl in the yellow dress, but the real me; a broken killer just like the rest of them - and in no way, _pure_. When he leans forward, I take it as a dare to see if I will move away or blush. I keep my head still and bite my cheek as I start to lose focus of his eyes. I refuse to blink.

He lets out a slight, pleasurable hum and says, "About you? That thing with you and Peeta. Complete. . ." He tilts forward another inch with his mouth slightly open and I swear to myself for closing my eyes. ". . .bullshit." My eyes snap open at his accusation and he is already a step back with a smirk across his face. "You wouldn't know what love was if it bit you in that tight ass of yours," he continues as the smirk turns into a full gorgeous smile. I scowl at his remark even though I know his words are meant to get a rise out of me.

"How would you know? Just because you've slept with everyone in the Capitol, doesn't make you an expert on the subject." I say as I cross my arms over my chest.

His eyes drop slightly and he tucks his lip between his teeth. "What I do_ is_ because of love," he says, lifting his chin. "I am sure you've done a few things, outside of that arena, that you're not too proud of. Not for Peeta though. No, what you're doing for Peeta in here isn't because you love him. . .you are repaying a debt." The muscle in his jaw flex as his lip twitches into another smirk. He moves past me and steps in front of the table that has various length of rope available for practice. "Peeta, on the other hand," he says picking up a piece of white cord, "_is_ in love with you. Head-over-freakin'-heels." He turns back to me and leans against the table, working the cord between his fingers. I keep quiet, curious to hear the rest of his theory. "You didn't have a choice coming back here. Let's say you were in his place; would you have volunteered, like he did?" His question takes me by surprise, even though I had an idea he would say something like this. I break his gaze and try to find the words to say. He already knows the answer, but repeats his question just to hear me say it out loud.

"No," I manage, "I wouldn't have."

"I thought so. But hey, just in case you can't find any berries this year, you might want to learn this knot." Finnick slips the white cord that he tied into a noose around his neck and pulls up on the remaining slack, miming strangulation with a grunt and crossed eyes. He laughs when I roll my eyes and walk away. His chuckle tweaks in pitch as he pulls the noose back over his head and catches his Adam's apple, only making him laugh harder.

After lunch I hope to find better conversation. Cashmere and Gloss invite me over to work on hammocks and I timidly accept their offer. Just like Finnick, the siblings tower over me with an even more impressive physique. I had less than a year of a decent diet and a few months of training against their lifetime of combat mastery.

"Hey Katniss?" Cashmere asks from the other side of the woven vine. I answer without looking up from one of my knots, trying a technique from the rope station on the vine.

"You did really well last year, but I have to say, your hand-to-hand sucks. Seriously, how big was that girl from 2?" She looks at her brother, Gloss, sitting cross-legged just to her left. He lets out a slight chuckle as he continues his task of weaving the longer threads of vine through the mesh. I look up and chew on my lip.

"I could have had her. I was just. . .creating suspense for the cameras," The sarcastic remark I make is more for my benefit. I don't want to dwell on that memory - it took me three months to shake Clove from my dreams.

"What do you say I show you some moves? Maybe then you will have a chance against Old Man Woof." Cashmere stands up and offers her hand to help me up.

"That bad, huh?" Given the circumstances, I thought I did well in the arena. I even got in a few good hits against the Peacekeepers the other morning. I would just have to do a better job at keeping my distance and getting to a bow sooner. Cashmere and I suit up in basic sparring gear a few stations over. The padded knuckles on my gloves make me feel vulnerable; I needed my hands for climbing or holding my bow. The vest feels too big on my shoulders. I couldn't crouch without the neck of it sliding up under my chin. To my relief, Cashmere decided against the helmets since we were going to take it slow.

We start off with a few punching exercises which consist of me hitting a circular pad that Cashmere holds up in front of me. It only takes a few minutes before my shirt is drenched and I beg for water. She waves me off, drops the pad and puts her gloves on. "Nah, you're fine. C'mon, let's dance a bit," she says bouncing around. My throat burns and it was getting harder to breath, but for some reason, I step forward and lift my gloves.

"That's it," she puts her gloves up and waves her hand, calling me to step closer. "Let's see what you got, c'mon." I keep my distance and punch the air, not wanting to hit her. When I swing my right, she steps forward to block with her left arm. Even with the padded glove, her arm was like hitting a tree. She calls me again, this time with both hands, fingertips wiggling from the red vinyl. I wipe the sweat from my eyes and mimic her bounce and step. I swing low with my left this time, hoping to have her lean in and open herself up for my right. Sure enough, she leans in to block and I step forward, sending my right high. Before I can blink, she catches my fist in her left palm and cracks me across the jaw with her right.

"Oh shit! I'm sorry!" I hear her yell and her feet trample across the mat as she runs over to me, laying ass up on the mat. "You weren't supposed to step into it like that. I was just going to tap you." Against better judgement, I take her hand and stand up. She disappears while I rub my jaw, swearing under my breath. When I see the bottle of water in front of my face, I accept her apology and drain half of it. I feel the cold water run down my throat and into my stomach, cooling my core for a brief moment.

"There you go. You okay?" She asks taking the bottle from me.

"Yeah, you just caught me by surprise, that's all." I gasp as I try to catch my breath from the cold water. She sets the bottle down and surprises me again when she resumes her bounce.

"Want to try it again?" Her smile is either from encouragement or enjoyment. Something told me to take my gloves off, but my pride got the better of me.

"Yeah, why not." I say, shifting my jaw.

"Try something different this time," I hear her say from behind her gloves. I try and size her up and think two steps ahead of her defense and this time I no longer mirror her bounce. I take a wider stance and shift slightly forward on my toes, thinking back to the fistfights that would break out in the alley by the Hob. I keep my gloves high in front of my face, hunch my shoulders, turn sideways and tilt my left elbow up. I even flick my nose with my thumb and sniff as I try to imitate the men who have "had it up ta here wit yer shit."

"Alright! Let's do it!" She cheers me on. I feint with my left and shift to the right, gauging her movements, waiting for her to strike again. "Scrappy little thing, isn't she, Gloss?" She calls out to her brother who is standing just off the mat. She finally takes a swing with her right which I am able to block, but I don't punch back. Then she lashes out with her left causing me to lower mine for the block and opens me up for the one-two I attempted earlier. The right handed punch spins me around and lands me on my back, seeing spots and tasting blood. The next hit churns the half liter of water in my stomach making me burp up a mouth full when Cashmere straddles me, grips my vest and pins me down.

"Why'd you have to do Glimmer like that, huh?" Cashmere hisses. I choke out the last bit of water pooling in the back of my throat.

"What-" My nose burns from the liquid and my split lip makes me wince. "What do you mean?"

"Glimmer, you little shit. They didn't even send her body back home because of how fucked she was from those tracker jackers. It should have been you reduced to ashes." How can I apologize for something I was forced to do? It was only meant to scare them away. Glimmer was the only one from the group to perish from the attack. She was also my first kill and I had her mentor sitting on top of me.

Then someone yells out, catching the attention of my opponent, "Hey glitter-tits!" Cashmere sits up and looks towards the insult. I try to look over but I am restrained by the padded vest shoved under my chin.

"The hell do you want, Johanna?" Ah, the girl from District 7. I thought she was busy rolling around naked in oil for a wrestling lesson.

"Why don't you leave some for the rest of us, huh?" Johanna yells from her station adjacent to ours. I guess she moved on to naked yoga; naked being her contribution to the activity.

"Isn't there a sponsor you should be fucking?" Cashmere calls back, releasing her grip on my vest.

"Oh, hardee-har. You're not the only one who has lost a tribute, you know? Haymitch would've stabbed all of our eyeballs out if that were the case. Probably would've fucked your dry eye socket too, considering how many tributes he's lost to yours." Before Cashmere could retaliate, Atala, the head trainer, runs over to our area, waving her arms and blowing a whistle frantically.

"What did I tell you? No fighting the other tributes!" The older woman huffs and scowls us, infuriated anyone would dare cross her rules. This gets Cashmere to stand up and turn her attention to the trainer.

"We're _sparring. _Don't you know the difference? Just some friendly play. Huh, Katniss?" She looks down at me and offers her hand. When she pulls me up, Cashmere lifts and eyebrow and cocks her head towards Atala. I suck on my lip and keep my eyes on Cashmere, never releasing her hand. She whispers my name and nudges her head again, waiting for my answer.

"Yeah. . ." my answer is muffled through closed curled lips. I continue to stare at her as I lean over and spit on the mat, creating an egg size splatter of blood. ". . . we were just playing." My nostril twitches into a snarl as I suck my busted lip back between my teeth. It's Cashmere who breaks first and looks away, pulling her hand from my grasp. Atala isn't amused and gives Cashmere a final warning as I yank my vest and gloves off. Johanna calls over and asks me if I want to join her for her lesson. I roll my eyes and head for the nearest exit to find a bathroom.

White tiles cover the walls and floor, accented with cool grey trim and stall doors. Black bullet-shaped trashcans stand on either side of the black counter that runs more than fifty feet in length along the bathroom wall. Small white cloth towels are placed between every other sink. Anything that isn't porcelain or plastic is dark smokey grey stainless steel. Twelve stalls. Twelve sinks. Twelve mirrors. I don't notice the details of the room until I sit down against the far wall to catch my breath. One of the trashcans, no longer smooth and sleek, lay on its side in the middle of the room, dented and crumpled. The white tile floor and smokey stainless steel was now spotted with my blood in front of the twelfth mirror and the last white towel in line was slowly shifting in colour wrapped around my hand.

I tried to calm myself down, standing in front of the last mirror, repeating my mantra. But when I saw myself with my hair plastered to my forehead and the blood running down my chin, I snapped. I cursed at the feral girl in the reflection I had grown accustomed to hate. She was weak and stupid. This wasn't a game; games were for children and there were none in this year's event. She was stupid for believing that there would be a chance for Peeta's survival. She was weak against the Careers, the Peacekeepers and the Capitol. I wasn't able to hit Cashmere, but I had to hit something. My anger lashed out; striking the girl in the mirror, kicking the trashcan, punching the black counter top, all while my shouts echoed off the tile and back to me.

The tantrum stopped when sobs wracked my body and I began choking on tears and blood running down my throat. I gripped the counter to steady myself as I coughed the metallic taste from my mouth. The shock of the cold water sobered me for a moment as I rinsed my mouth and wiped my face. One of my knuckles, nicked by the broken glass, continued to bleed even under the water. When I examined the small cut on my shaking hand and I was amazed at how fierce my knuckle wept. I wrapped my hand with a small towel and watched the crimson tainted water slowly disappear down the drain. Fatigue hit me suddenly and I sat down against the far wall and leaned my head back as my drying tears left my cheeks stiff with salt.

What is Haymitch going to think when he sees me like this? Not only will it further prove I lack people skills, it will also reinforce my opposition to the idea of obtaining allies. If I was forced to make a list of possible allies, it will not contain any names of those who can easily kill me.

Twelve stalls. Twelve sinks. Twelve mirrors.

I miss home.

* * *

**AN:**_ Thank you all for sticking it out with me as I stumble through my first fic. I have been watching the viewer counter and I am blown away to see how many of you have returned to read my updates, hopefully as curious as I am, to find out what kind of ideas develop from between the pages and lines of _Catching Fire. _I can assure you, we have just begun to scratch the surface of what lies in the dark shadows of the Capitol.  
I would love to hear from you, my lovely readers! PM me with your comments or suggestions and of course any reviews would mean the world to me. See you next week!_


	7. Touch

_**AN:** Beta'd by Estoma_

* * *

Without getting up, Dr. Antyllus rolls his tiny stool across the cold room to take a closer look at my lip. With his face inches from mine, I am thankful his beverage of choice this afternoon is a sweet fruit concoction, bearing no resemblance to the bitter reminder of coffee.

"How'd you manage this one?" he asks with the same dry enthusiasm from my previous visit. He has been the training center's physician for the past eight years and with my busted lip and recent introduction to womanhood, I am sure he is bored of me. I'm not too fond of the idea of seeing him either, but I finally give up my solitude when the white towel becomes completely saturated.

"I told you, sparring." I flex my hand against the stiff white tape that wraps over my knuckles, holding in place a sterile strip of gauze. My hand is puckered and pruned from being submerged in a small tub of an iodine mixture and the dull pain is slowly fading with the aid of cold antiseptic, the same I used in the arena last year. I remember the smell and the cool relief it offered, never forgetting that it is this same milk colored gel that essentially saved Peeta's life and mine. When the doctor uses it on my hand, I feel horrible for letting him use the expensive medicine to treat the consequences of my stupid actions.

"Well, the bleeding has stopped, but it's pretty swollen. Hold still," Antyllus says, taking my chin in one hand and dabs the cream on my lip.

Even though the ointment has life saving effects, its taste is retched. My tongue curls to the back of my mouth, hiding from the offending taste and a groan rumbles from my throat as I shoot Antyllus an angry look.

"Yes, I'm sorry. It tastes quite ugly doesn't it?" Antyllus' use of 'ugly' is somehow the perfect word for it and I nod in reply, refusing to let my tongue anywhere near my teeth to form a verbal answer. "Keep it on there for fifteen minutes, then you can rinse it off. I do have to say this is the first that I have heard of tributes training with each other. Don't they discourage that?" I simply shrug at his question. "Eh, I guess this year there aren't the same kind of turf wars or things to prove when you are among friends. Just keep the rough and tumble to a minimum, I don't think your prep team wants to deal with any more split lips next week for the interviews and the Sponsor's Ball."

The one time Antyllus says something of interest, is when I have stuff that tastes worse than pokeweed on my lip. Maybe this 'Sponsor's Ball' is a last hurrah for the Capitolites to say their goodbyes, or the tributes can get in some more 'sweet-talk' in hopes of one more parachute. Either way, it is a question more suited for Effie.

Antyllus hands me a familiar blue pill in a small paper cup. "Here you are, down the hatch." I pop the pill in my mouth and dry swallow it, not trusting the mix of water and ointment on my tongue.

He rolls back towards the counter and spins around in one fluid, well-practiced movement and his attention turns to the digital device, probably to fill out more boring forms regarding my boring treatment. "Now, off you go. Report back to the training room," he says with his back turned to me. I am disappointed that I am not able to return to my room and hide until the games.

I find an unattended training station in hopes of being left alone for the rest of the afternoon. I will hear enough from Peeta and Haymitch this evening as it is. Atala said my attendance is required for another two hours, but I'm not expected to do anything. From my seat, I see a dark room with floor to ceiling glass walls as orange flashing light pulses throughout the interior. Inside, Brutus is training with his spear, performing a deadly choreographed dance against an array of holographic figures. They have an eerie similarity to the other twenty-three Victors - including myself, which is posed on the mezzanine level of the combat range; bow drawn, arrow nocked. When Brutus sends his spear through _my _orange projection, creating a dazzling explosion of fractals, my heart skips a beat.

"Pssst. Hey." I turn and see the hollow-eyed tribute from District 6. Frayed, brittle hair crowns his yellowed, sunken face. "You just s-saw the d-doc, right?" I give him a curious look from my seat. He glances at my right hand, wrapped in fresh white tape.

"Oh, it's nothing really-"

"He give yo-... gi- give you anything?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Yeah, li- like, some, morphling. You know, little blue p- pills. M- m- morphling. You... you got any ex- extra? Hey, where a- are you g- going?"

Across from the twelfth mirror, I enter the twelfth stall and throw up. I should have known the little blue pills were more than a simple pain reliever. The last few nights were free of nightmares. Although, I didn't feel the need for the pills last night because the feverish discomfort in my abdomen had gone away, I popped one to go to sleep anyway. I wonder if the morphling slowed me down while Cashmere landed me on my ass, twice.

This past year, I have had every accommodation I could ask for: enough food to feed both Gale's family and mine, ample clothing for any occasion, money to buy the things I couldn't make or find on my own and now expensive medicine to relieve minor aches. I have grown soft. In the arena there will be no morphling, hot food, soft beds or trainers to break up a fight. If Peeta is going to survive, I will have to feel every cut, blow, burn and sting.

I wipe my mouth and head straight for the combat range. I am exhausted, dehydrated, sore, bruised and pissed off - but can I still shoot?

When I arrive, I watch the last round of orange explosions scatter through the dark room as I wait my turn, bow in hand.

In the arena I will not make the mistake of getting close enough for hand-to-hand, especially now that everyone knows how dreadful I am at it. I will get a bow. I will not hesitate. I will make every arrow count. I will kill my fellow Victors - for Peeta.

* * *

"Nice shooting yesterday. When you see Cashmere in the arena, you should shove one of those arrows up her ass," Johanna says, clapping me hard across my back. When I turn around she holds her hand out, gripping an unseen object and bounces it around, "Hey look, I'm _Cashmere; Beauty of the Capitol. I am so sad that I won't be coming back home to my adoring fans. I'm too busy getting rear-ended by Katniss." _She then drops the imaginary puppet and punts it into the distance. I can't help but laugh at her performance and I repay her for the gesture with a simple thanks before I take a lap around the training center, looking for any last minute skills I may find useful.

I soon find Peeta working with the tributes from 6, elbow deep in multi-colored grease paint. I watch for a moment, admiring Peeta's concentration and attention to the detail of the hibiscus he is painting on the female while her partner clumsily spreads the paint across her arm and chest. I can see how Peeta uses the streaks as a background for the flowers and with precise shading and highlights, they look real, standing off the girl's arm. I step closer to inspect his technique and it isn't until my head is right over his shoulder that he notices my presence. This makes him jump and his brush mushes across the morphling canvas and leaves a streak of soft white over the already perfect flower. The girl doesn't move or notice the interruption; her attention is on her partner pawing at her multi-colored breast, swirling new colors into abstract shapes.

"They seem to be having fun. How about you?" I ask Peeta as he turns his head to look back at me.

"I'm doing okay. I'm trying to figure out how to paint faster. Last time it was rocks. I want to see what I can do with flowers, other than making them out of sugar." He gives a small smile and sets his brush down.

"They're beautiful. But how do you know we'll even have flowers? One year, it was nothing but a white landscape. Their clothes and weapons were black and the only real color was the blood." We had all heard the stories, it was a game too old to have had a playable record. The only way the tributes obtained food or weapons were from their sponsors. That year made the importance of the sponsors more pertinent and our mentors made sure we knew it, thus the extravagant outfits and personality coaching.

"I have to hope, right?" he says as his mouth forms a hard line. I've done it again; I let a stupid thing fall out of my mouth. Peeta is sitting here trying to hold onto some beauty of this horrible situation and I make all of the color disappear. I look away from his disappointed eyes and try to find something to brighten his mood again. There is a small patch of yellow flowers about a foot tall surrounding a frail apple tree. I run over to the display, lie down in the flowers with my arms out and prop one leg up against the tree.

"You've got ten minutes!" I yell from my position. "Make me disappear!"

"Ten minutes? That's-"

"Tick-tock, Peeta!" I smile as I hear him clamor for his supplies. Suddenly, he stands above me, holding a can of yellow paint.

"You sure about this?" I nod and close my eyes. He kneels down beside me with his bad leg splayed out to the side and nudges my hip with his other knee as he leans over and wipes handfuls of paint across my outstretched arms. When he reaches my shoulders, I feel him hesitate before he moves to my belly. His frantic movements tickle and I start to giggle.

"Shhh, you're supposed to be a flower. Flowers aren't ticklish," Peeta says as he works the paint along my shirt and my hips. He gives a few more jabs with his fingers, making me giggle again.

"You're going to blow our cover, quit it," I say and slap his arm. He then reaches out with his yellow-soaked hands and covers my face, wiping paint across my cheeks and forehead. Suddenly, his hand stops over my mouth.

"I said, _quiet_." He is still smiling but I am not.

Before I can blink, my hand grips his wrist and I yank his hand away. Peeta almost loses his balance and the yellow flowers are smashed under his right hand.

"Whoa, what happened? Katniss, are you alright? Talk to me. Katniss?" he says, staying completely still while his wrist remains in my grasp. Then his blue eyes, washed with worry, make me realize what I have done.

"I- uhm, I'm sorry." I let his wrist go and put my hand to my mouth. "My lip is still sore. You startled me, I guess." With a deep breath and a smile, I hope he is convinced.

"I forgot, I'm sorry. You can barely see it." The remedy I received yesterday sealed my cut over night, leaving nothing more than tender, plump flesh. "You're sure you're alright?"

I motion to my leg propped up against the tree and wiggle my foot, "Seven minutes." When his attention turns to the task of blending my black legging into tree bark, I am free to blink back the tears. I can't be upset with him; he doesn't know what he did. Really, I am more upset with myself for letting his play shock me. I had Cashmere on top of me yesterday with no issues, but why did Peeta frighten me? It was too similar I guess. It's not his fault. If Peeta and I are to continue the act of The Lovers, I can't let this happen again. It is my choice to lie here and let my guard down while Peeta touches me.

He is gentle. He is kind. He loves me. He is the only person I trust. I am safe when I can see his blue eyes.

A few minutes later, Peeta gets up to fetch more supplies and I look at my leg completely camouflaged against the tree. I have to wiggle my foot and bend my knee to see where the tree begins and my leg ends. He has definitely improved considering the last time I saw his abilities were with river rocks. He returns a moment later with a large chip brush and kneels down at my side again.

"What's that for?" I ask.

"I have to finish the rest of the yellow." Peeta says reaching for the paint can. If I was going to get comfortable with Peeta again, now is the time.

"You won't have brushes in the arena, silly." He looks back at me with a puzzled look. I smile and take the brush from his hand. He looks at the untouched portion of my shirt and then back to me.

"You're sure?" he says, clearing his throat.

"Three minutes." This time, my words come out more sultrier than I intended, but it gets him to dip his hands back into the paint can. His hands hover over my chest and I can see slight embarrassment cross his face. I take look at the crystal blue eyes above me and relax. Taking a breath, I await the application of the cool paint and close my eyes. He is much gentler than before as his fingers start at my shoulder and cross over my collarbone, eventually kneading the pigment over my neck. The artfully skilled caress makes my temperature rise. I start to share the nervous feeling with Peeta, anticipating the destination of his hands, still unsure if I will be comfortable with the contact. Slowly, his hands dip lower and run along the hem of my tank top, grazing the top of my breast with the heel his palm. I try to keep my breathing steady and my eyes closed so he can concentrate without any judgement - he is just as vulnerable as I am at this point. Finally, I hear him take a deep breath and clear his throat before he places his palms directly on my chest, slowly working the yellow paint over the black fabric of my tank top. I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling. When he lingers for a brief moment, I can feel his conflict between being an artist and a teenage boy as his thumb flexes ever so slightly, kneading my flesh. There was something about his awkwardness that amuses me and something about his touch that surprises me when it makes my heart race. In this moment, Peeta is the pure one and I think he finally realizes it.

His hands work their way to my ribs, blending the paint with the first layer he placed around my belly. I feel him lean over me again and hear the slosh of paint as he mixes a new color, then his fingers start to dab and flick over the rest of my body as he works in the details of the flowers. His pace quickens and the hesitation is gone as his concentration takes over - I am no longer a girl, but a canvas filling with flowers.

"Keep your eyes closed," he whispers before he begins to dab around my forehead and eyebrows, smoothing the color over my eyelids, his touch even lighter than before. I try to picture the petals developing under the pad of his finger as he grazes my nose and chin. When I feel his thumb linger on my bottom lip, I open my eyes and see his face inches from mine. His eyes move from my mouth to meet my gaze and I am thankful for the camouflage when I feel the heat rise to my cheeks.

"Is your lip okay?" he asks softly. I give a small nod, careful not to shake his hand away again.

"That's good." When he smiles, I fall deeper into the blue of his eyes and sink further into the yellow flowers. I was wrong before when I startled so easily, because at this moment, I have never felt safer. "All finished with thirty seconds left to spare," Peeta continues with his voice low through a smug grin. More like two minutes over, but I don't correct him.

What is it about this touch this time? Is it his warmth or innocence? We have been much closer than this before with plenty of people watching. We have even been in complete isolation, but our contact was meant for keeping the nightmares at bay. This is a different kind of touch, and I like it.

"Ho, Peeta! Where are you?"

Peeta quickly sits up, seeking out whoever was calling him. "Shhh, close your eyes. Don't move." He whispers to me and stands up.

"Hey, Finnick, what's up?" Peeta says as Finnick makes his way up to our station. My heart starts to hammer in my chest when I hear Finnick's footsteps land a few feet away from my head.

"You see Katniss around? I need to ask her something?" I hold my breath and clamp my eyes shut. Finnick hasn't discovered me yet and I don't want to ruin this for Peeta.

"No, actually. I've been here the whole time. You check the combat range?" There is no change or crack in Peeta's voice. His ability to lie is impeccable.

"I did, and it's full. Since yesterday, everyone has picked up a bow. Still can't find her." I didn't think Haymitch was serious when he said that at least half of the victors had put in a request for me to be an ally, but now that the range is full, I can't help but feel a little pride in my skill.

"If I find her, I'll let her know you were looking for her. Where will you be?" Peeta keeps the lies rolling and I find myself amused with how well his camouflage works.

"Down range, practicing with my trident." When I no longer hear Finnick's retreating footsteps, I open my eyes and look up at Peeta whose grin spreads from ear to ear.

"That was amazing," I say from my position among the small flowers.

"You were amazing. Wow, that's weird. All I can see is your eyes and mouth when they're open. Is that how I looked last year?" He kneels down beside me to take a closer look and I close my eyes and mouth for his inspection. "Open your eyes again." He asks as he places his fingers under my chin. His eyes are mixed with amazement and concentration, much like the time in the cave when he searched for any trace of the cut on my forehead that was erased by the Capitolite medicine. "I've never noticed how pretty your eyes are." I know his comment is complete bullshit considering he has an incredible talent for attention to detail, but it makes me blush and look away all the same.

"What are you doing? There are no cameras in here," I say, smiling back at him. Peeta bites his lip and then stands up, wiping his hands on his pants.

"Sorry, I- I uhm. Practicing, I guess." He must have used up all of his confidence when I let him put his hands on me. I feel horrible for teasing him, I am sure I would have reacted the same way if I had my hands on him. I stand up and start to apologize but something catches my eye.

"Oh wow. . . we should- we should go." I stammer as I stare at a mound of colors on the far end of the station rise and fall.

"What do you mean?" Peeta looks in the direction my eyes are fixed on. "Oh jeez, yeah." He takes my arm and leads me down the small steps away from the multi-colored morphlings entwined on the floor swirled in paint. From the way the colors were moving, there is no doubt their activities were not part of any kind of training.

* * *

_**AN: **If you found the White arena interesting - please check out Estoma's dangerous and beautifully written story _Depraved and Devious_ \- where her imagination conjures a new Victor and several breathtaking arenas in 13 short chapters. Estoma's attention to detail and emotion takes you to the edge of your seat and I guarantee you will pin her as your next favorite author before you finish the first chapter._


	8. Secrets

_**AN: **So sorry to keep you guys waiting! Now that I know I have consistent readers and the best beta anyone could ask for (Estoma!), I want to make sure my chapters are perfect for you guys. I am very eager to hear from you, my lovely readers. So please drop a review or a PM and let me know what you think so far!**  
**_

* * *

Step, step, twirl, thrust, turn, twirl, swing, jab, step, thrust.

The quiet echoes of tributes training further down range dampen any audible proof of the young Victor's exercise. His footsteps, precise and sure, tread lightly on the soft mat. Strong fingers effortlessly spin the trident in tight revolutions as muscles rhythmically ripple in time. Artificial light highlights each ridge and contour of his exposed, tanned, torso and a hint of sweat shimmers across his brow. His face is relaxed and calm just as his breathing. Even his eyes appear to be closed.

Suddenly, he spins the trident around his back and sends it into the air, keeping his gaze to the ground and with two gliding steps, he turns and catches the weapon at his waist. It gives a quiet ring as it hits his palm.

"Like what you see?" Finnick asks with his back turned to me. I am amazed he notices my presence, even though I am sure the shadows conceal me among the pillars. His words bring me out of my daze and I realize I am still staring when he continues, "I never did like these training uniforms. Too constricting."

"Peeta said you wanted to see me," I say, clearing my throat and stepping onto the padded mat. After changing into a new uniform and scrubbing as much of the yellow grease paint from my arms and face, I gave in to the curiosity sparked by Finnick's request to talk to me.

The trident starts to move again in Finnick's hands as he turns around. Seeing the flash of metal work its way towards me, I stop and feel the urge to retreat.

"Oh, hey, there's nothing to worry about. You didn't kill any of _my _tributes." He gives the trident another flip and sets the butt down with a loud bang, making me jump.

"You know how these games work. I just-"

"Did what you had to do? I know. All of us know. Only Cashmere made the mistake of getting too close to Glimmer. That's one part of these games you'll never know like the rest of us."

"Look, if I wanted a lecture from a mentor, I'd talk to mine. I already got an earful from Haymitch yesterday," I say and cross my arms over my chest.

Finnick's stance relaxes and he grabs hold of his trident with both hands and leans against it. "Oh, you've got me all wrong. Sure, I am a fellow contender, but I could possibly be an ally," he says, lifting an eyebrow.

"I don't want an ally. It didn't turn out so great last time."

Finnick gives a solemn nod. "Sure, another thing we all know too well. But while we're alive and kickin' down here, buried deep in the basement, I think we can help each other out."

I hate that stupid smile of his.

"What did you have in mind?" I learned my lesson with Cashmere; trusting Finnick gives me an uneasy feeling.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe we can trade. You show me how to shoot and I can show you how to use this without poking your eye out," Finnick says, slowly gliding one hand up and down the metal in an obvious attempt to make me uncomfortable.

I put my hands up and turn to walk away. "Nope. I'm done with combat training. Pick up a bow and figure it out with the others."

"I wasn't finished. We can make it interesting."

"With what? Kisses for bulls-eyes?" I say with a huff and turn around.

"Kind of. Instead of kisses, although I do like that idea, what do you say to secrets? You know I have plenty," he says as he resumes twirling the trident in one hand. "And maybe you can tell me what that yellow shit is on your ear."

I rub my ear and look at my fingers. Sure enough, I missed some paint Peeta used to make me disappear into a bed of flowers.

"You really didn't see me?" I ask.

"When? I thought you were hiding in the bathroom again."

I smile and rub my fingers together, dissolving the paint into small flecks. "I was hiding in the flowers."

Finnick raises an eyebrow at my confession. "No shit? Bread Boy has some skills after all. Maybe this year he can score some parachutes with cave paintings."

"Forget it. Just make sure the pointy end of the arrow is facing away from you and you'll do fine." I step off of the mat and head for the steps.

"Cashmere is afraid of heights," Finnick calls after me. I stop and look over my shoulder and see he now has his trident over his shoulders with both hands draped over the shaft; his smile is smugger than ever. "And Brutus, he hates fire."

I creep back onto the mat, my feet driven by his notion. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Like I said, to make things more interesting. And c'mon, how else am I going to get you to show me how to shoot?"

"One hour. That's it. I'll tell you one of my secrets _if _you hit a bulls-eye."

* * *

_"That's it, draw it all the way back to your chin. Hold on, loosen up your fingers. See how the arrow fell off your bow hand? Okay, put it down. Let's try again."_

_"Ugh, Dad, this is really hard."_

_"I know, but you'll get the hang of it. Now, your arrow is already nocked, don't pinch your fingers together. There you go. Okay, when you lift your bow, draw at the same time, like this. See, nice and fluid. That's it, all the way back to your chin. Remember your shoulders. Ah, watch that elbow. There you go. Now... loose."_

_"Aw, too low."_

_"But you hit the tree this time. Remember how that felt. Now adjust and aim a little higher. Go on, get another arrow."_

_"My arm hurts. Look, it's already bruising."_

_"That's 'cause you're all double jointed. It's a girl thing. Remember to turn your elbow out and the string won't hit you. I'll make you an arm guard for next time. Okay, strong shoulders this time. And when you release- Watch, Katniss, look at me. When you release, bring your hand back to your ear, like you are brushing hair off your face. That's right. Okay, let's try it again."_

_"It's getting dark. What about the fence?"_

_"Just a few more and we'll head back, okay? It's too hot for the fence to come on this early anyway. All the power is going to the shops and state buildings. Alright, remember to aim a bit higher. With your arm, don't lean back, you're all wonky. There you go, very nice. When you're ready."_

_"Dad! I hit it! Gimme another arrow!"_

_..._

_"I had fun today."_

_"I'm glad. It'll be nice to have a hunting partner."_

_"Naw, you just want someone to lug all this stuff for you."_

_"Hey, that stuff is food. Wouldn't it be nice to have a little extra on the table? I don't want you to ever have to take a tesserae."_

_"I know. It just sucks that we can't just buy our food."_

_"Katniss, look at me, hey, don't you ever, ever, rely on what the Capitol gives us. You might not see it yet, but they don't care about us. Not here in 12 anyway. You know how many hours I work in the mines and all the people your mom takes care of, yet we barely get by."_

_"But what if we get caught?"_

_"You can keep a secret, can't you? Well, this is just a bigger, more important secret. You want to see your sister grow up big and strong, yeah? And you want to help your mom by gathering herbs for her medicine? Just do what I tell you and we won't get caught."_

_"I understand. Hey, Dad? Can you sing somethin'? I like it when the mockingjays sing along."_

_"Sure. Let's see. Remember what the jabberjays were, right?"_

_"Yeah. They're like the mockingjays, but they could talk."_

_"I was a child_  
_Running wild on the mountain_  
_I knew secrets_

_I collected my charms_  
_and carried them down the great big valley_  
_I felt two eyes on me_

_Of his feathers I'm warned_  
_That he would take every word I_  
_Had ever spoken_

_I held on to my secret_  
_I knew I had to keep it_

_He followed me down_  
_Onto a wilted meadow_  
_His words grew stronger_  
_Deceit filled his wings_

_Gazing down to the water_  
_I find my paradise_  
_and I took out my secret_  
_I knew I could not keep it_

__In the silence  
Hiding deep down  
___Me and my charm  
__Shall never surface_

_He'll never sing of my secrets_

_I have a secret that can change the way the people think_  
_I have a secret that can change the way you think of me"_

* * *

"What are you humming?" Finnick asks as he picks out another arrow from his quiver.

"Huh? Oh, nothing. Just thinking of home." After some basic pointers, I told him to shoot a few rounds to get the feel of it. Watching him fumble with the arrows reminded me of when I could barely hit a tree from ten yards. "Stand up straight, you're leaning forward too much."

"You're lucky you're going back into the arena right away. You'd have been pretty popular back in the Capitol humming nothing," he says as he draws back the arrow to the anchor point at his jaw. Even though he put his shirt back on, I can see his shoulders flex under the thin polyester of his training uniform. His posture may be bit sloppy, but for some reason, I don't mind.

"How is the arena better than the Capitol?"

He releases the arrow, sending it high and to the right on the flat, square target. Looking over his shoulder, he says, "You'll figure it out at the Sponsors Ball."

"What, they're going to make me get up and sing? Yeah, I'd prefer the arena too." I get up from my seat on the floor and step closer to Finnick at the twenty-yard marker.

"All I am saying is you might have to _perform _for those parachutes," he says, cocking an eyebrow.

"You don't mean-"

"You know what, don't worry about it," Finnick continues as he loads his bow again, keeping his eyes forward. "Your engagement might be a better idea than you thought. Believe it or not, these Capitol people have _some _respect."

"Don't you have someone back home? And you still... _perform_?"

"Okay, not _that_ much. We aren't as official as you and Blondie. Damn, I keep hitting the top right."

"You're not centering yourself. Straighten out your left arm; you're pulling up when you draw. Bring your shoulder blades together and stick out your chest a bit, like this." I stretch out my left arm and set my right hand at my jaw, easily falling into my archer's stance with my shoulders back and chest out.

Finnick's eyes drop and he gives a wicked grin. "I think I get it now."

"Oh shut up, get another arrow." I give him a playful shove and look over my shoulder to see how interested the Gamemakers are in our session. I lean forward and lower my voice. "You know Peeta and I aren't really official. We only did it because Snow thinks-"

"Those berries were a big middle finger to the Capitol?" Finnick whispers, glancing up at the mezzanine. "I think Haymitch is right, you're not smart enough for that kind of stunt."

"Gee, thanks. I wonder what else you and Haymitch have to say about me," I mumble and think how horrible an idea this is.

"You and Peeta need to spice up your act. People are already getting bored and from the little whispers left on my pillow, the outer districts couldn't give a shit about the wedding."

Stepping back, I watch Finnick fire a few more rounds and try to focus on his shooting instead of his comment regarding myself and Peeta. Finnick is actually listening to my instructions and the arrows start to fall closer to the center.

"Much better," I commend much louder this time, keeping the training portion of our conversation as natural as possible for those bothering to listen.

I step forward and lightly place my hand on Finnick's shoulder and quietly continue the other part of our bargain. "I still can't figure out why they think I'm anything special in the first place."

"You also took out a Gamemaker. The dirtiest, most fucked up Gamemaker, I might add. So why stop there?"

"All Gamemakers are fucked up, what do you mean?" When he pulls back the bowstring, I can tell from his shoulders he has become tense from the new topic.

"Let's just say he plays a dirtier game outside of the control room. I'm glad he's dead." He puts emphasis on this last word when he fires, then immediately sets down his bow and heads for the target to retrieve his arrows. Suddenly I realize it wasn't just the rich Capitol citizens vying for his attention. Who else would be more obsessed with the Victor than his own Gamemaker? My nose wrinkles at the idea of two men together and the thought of Finnick running his fingers through Crane's ridiculous beard.

"Here I thought running from tribute-faced mutts was screwed up. What do you think about Plutarch?" After our little chat at the party, I was curious about Plutarch's motives and maybe a different Gamemaker would ease the tension.

"I'm surprised they let him come back as the Head Gamemaker." Finnick returns to the line with a full quiver, ready for another round and from the look on his face, another topic. "He was pretty close to getting the same treatment as Crane."

"Watch your posture." I step forward again and place my hand on his shoulder, muscles flicker under my fingers. "Bring your shoulders back and drop your elbow a bit, it's too high. There you go, remember to breathe." I step back and line my sight up with his. "When you're ready." Finnick slowly breathes out and fires. The arrow plunges into the target just outside the red of the bulls-eye.

"There you go, much better. Try it again." I clear my throat, not sure if Finnick is ready to continue our conversation, but my curiosity urges me to ask him about Plutarch. "So what did he do to step down?"

An odd grin appears on Finnick's face, like he remembered the punch line to an inside joke. "He offed that mayor's kid, remember? That boulder that came loose from the 'earthquake.' " Finnick pulls another arrow and nocks it with ease while he speaks. "A lot of people lost a lot of money on that game. Plus, Snow wanted to prove to the districts the higher ups were untouchable."

"So why would they let him back in?"

"You have a certain effect on people. I guess he is the only one who isn't afraid of you."

Finnick is right. Plutarch said no one else stepped up because of the responsibility of how the Games turn out. Really, no one wants the responsibility of making sure I don't survive.

I look back up to the mezzanine and sure enough, Plutarch is standing at the railing with his eyes on me. Shouts from a few stations over draw my attention and I think up of another question for Finnick.

"What's up with Johanna?" I motion to where Johanna is jumping from obstacle to obstacle, chasing after a trainer with a foam weapon. Her war cry can be heard echoing off of the walls. "Looks like she finally found her uniform. Seriously, why all of the nudity? Did you hear about the elevator?"

"Oh that? That's her way of being in control, I guess. She's lost a lot since she won. She may seem crazy, but that's her way of keeping it together, especially being so far away from her home in 7."

Coffee fills my senses and my stomach lurches.

7.

_"I've had victors before... 4 and 7." _

"Wait, she's the only female Victor from 7, right?" Johanna's behavior doesn't make sense to me, especially if what Thread said is true, but who else could it have been?

"Yeah, why? Damnit, so close."

"You know the rules, hit a bull and I will tell you what I know."

"Fair enough."

His silence tempts the words from my mouth; my throat contracts, desperately trying to keep them in, but my tongue betrays me.

"I might have something in common with her." I continue to watch a screaming Johanna being pulled away by two assistants as she throws broken bits of foam at the poor trainer on the floor._  
_

"What, because you're the only females from your districts?"

"No. I think we may have gone through some of the same stuff back home."

Suddenly, Finnick is standing in front of me, arrow in one hand, bow in the other. I look up at his green eyes, too stunned to move. Finnick hisses so as not to raise his voice and call attention from the other tributes. "Don't you _ever_ compare yourself to her. You have a family. You have Peeta. You still have your dignity. She would've had everything if it weren't for..." he pauses to compose himself, but really it seems like he is holding something back. "She was forced into these games. You volunteered."

"You think I had a choice? My sister was called, goddamnit!" My voice almost cracking in the attempt to keep a low volume. "Johanna's name was drawn by chance."

"On purpose! They rigged it! Because of something she did, she was forced."

Finnick keeps his voice low, but raises the arrow, bringing fletching just inches from my nose. "That girl has been to hell and back, and you say you two have something in common."

"Forget it. This was a bad idea," I mutter and lower my eyes. There is much more to this game than I will ever understand and I am still a rookie compared to these other Victors. Who knows what they have done to stay in the game.

From our position, Finnick turns and fires at the target. "Huh, would ya look at that... a bulls-eye."

I look up at the board and sure enough, the arrow found its way to the center. "Now tell me, what is it that you _think_ you share with Johanna?" His posture shifts and he narrows his eyes at me.

"The same thing as someone from 4."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I- I... Uhm," I stammer, unsure how I should answer. "Another female Victor from 4, I mean. Maybe from the last ten years."

Finnick's brow furrows for a moment and I can see him piecing everything together as I rattle on about the Victors from 4. Suddenly his eyes grow wide at his conclusion.

I start to count my fingers and name off the list of girls from his home district. "There's Dana, Saranda, Lorne and... uhm, Anna? No. An-"

"He never hurt her. I made sure of that." He lets the bow fall to the floor. Picking up his trident, he turns his back to me; his shoulders now sag with a sigh.

This game of secrets is becoming something we both regret. Before I can say another word, the trident is hurled at the target. It lands right in the center, snapping his previous arrow.

"What do you know about Peacekeeper Thread?" Finnick asks, keeping his back to me.

"Something we both know all too well."

* * *

**_AN: _**_Song lyrics inspired by "I Have a Secret" by the band Historia, written by Bijou Basil_


	9. Control

_**AN:** Ack, another long wait. My deepest apologies! Working with my lovely beta, Estoma, has really helped me figure out not only S&amp;G, but story as well. So chapters are taking a bit longer than usual. (This is my first fic ya know...) Hope you enjoy this next chapter, it's gonna get a little spicy in here. As always, feedback is always welcome!_

* * *

After our training session, Finnick had triggered something in me that left me hungry for more information about what happened between him and Thread. We were at a standstill on that combat range, unable to say exactly what happened, but came to an understanding. Thread _had _Finnick and Johanna, I knew that, but how? My mind kept churning different scenarios, keeping me awake in a clustered cycle between what Thread did to me and what he could have done to them.

For the next few days, Finnick and I just talked in passing or at the lunch table about anything that didn't involve a certain Peacekeeper. Even if I had the courage to ask him, any information gathered at this point would be useless considering there are only four more days until we go back to the arena.

Four more days until our pain and abuse will be over.

At lunch, I look around and see that everyone is also aware how much time we have left. Conversations become shorter, comments really, and some are starting to eat alone or with their district partner.

Peeta and I stay together in our usual fashion, and like the others, our attention is drawn to the plates in front of us. The Careers: Cashmere, Gloss, Enobaria and Brutus sit the furthest away from the main group. Their once _friendly_ demeanor starts to turn into whispers and sideways glances shot in our direction.

Finnick and Mags share our table but sit at the other end. Finnick quietly keeps Mags company with stories from home while she dips a finger into her third serving of pudding, wiping the cup clean before sucking the last little bits from her fingers. I look back at my plate that has scarcely been touched. My stomach must also be aware of how many days are left. I know I should be eating whatever is available to prepare me for the Games, but I feel as if my body is already accepting the fact it won't need much more to last me for another week.

"Hey, sunshine!" Johanna gives a cheerful greeting as she slams her lunch tray down on the table across from us. Mags doesn't look up, but I can see a slight smile cross her face. "You're lookin' mighty fierce today, Katniss. Plannin' on throwing those bags under your eyes at some careers?" she asks before she takes a big bite of bread.

"Afternoon," I mutter, returning my eyes to my plate, annoyed with how she can be so chipper when the clock is ticking.

"Grumpy too. That'll scare 'em off. How you doin' Peeta?" she says, giving him a wink.

Peeta clears his throat and gives a curt nod, "Johanna." Ever since her show in the elevator, he gets a silly grin on his face when he sees her.

"Effie likes to make sure we are _up, up, up! _at least two hours before prep and training," I mutter, pushing bits of mashed potato around my plate. I would rather her, and any other opponent, to think my lack of sleep is from the rough hours during training and not because I'm afraid to sleep. I'm not only afraid of where my mind will go, but what will happen in the next four days.

Since I flushed the morphling pills, I've tried to convince myself that I could get to sleep on my own. But when I hear the click of the automatic locks around midnight, I know I've made a mistake by not sneaking over to Peeta's room earlier. So I lie awake staring at the ceiling until I am too tired to dream.

"My first escort was like that, until after my Games," Johanna says between bites. "I stopped her wake up calls with an ax through her pretty green wig. You should have seen it! Her wig stuck to the wall as she ran away screaming! I think she was more worried about being seen with a bald head than my accuracy."

As much as I would like to do the same with Effie, I keep quiet and force a spoonful of mashed potato in my mouth.

"Oh, don't tell me you're being antisocial like the rest of those meat-bags?" she says with a full mouth.

"Hard to be social with someone when you might have to kill them." I keep my eyes to my plate.

"Come on, there's plenty to talk about. Kill some time before we kill each other, yeah?"

"What do you want to talk about?" I say, setting my spoon down and crossing my arms. "The Sponsor's Ball tomorrow, or the training scores after that? How about the interviews before..."

"We finally get out of this dump?"

I'm puzzled by her response.

"Even if the arena is a hellhole, it's better than being cooped up in here," she states firmly. "Sure, I could go on about how much I want to shove my boot up Snow's ass and walk back home to 7, but what do you think that'll that get me? Treason? Firing Squad? At least out there, I'll still have my ax in my hand when... _if_, _it _happens. Maybe I'll get a few more kills under my belt. _My _belt, not some piece of shit sequined, tasseled, pink belt..." Johanna trails off, cursing her stylist in between bites of bread and smoked ham. "Sorry aprons aren't part of the uniform, Peet."

Peeta gives a nervous chuckle and scoots his chair back. "I'm going to get some more bread. Katniss, you need anything?"

I shake my head and give a small smile, even though I'm jealous of his clever escape from Johanna's crude ramblings. I turn my attention to my water and take a sip, hoping she will take the hint that I am not up for much conversation. I don't want to risk the chance of accidentally bringing up something we all know too much about.

Johanna watches Peeta walk back to the buffet counter, then she leans across the table and whispers to me, "Alright, you gotta give me the deets on Bread-Boy over there. He stick it in your oven yet?"

I nearly choke on my water and slam down my glass. Before I can grab a napkin to sop up my mess, she continues with a mischievous grin, "Ho, ho! Peeta hasn't lit your fire yet! No wonder you look dead already. I'm tellin' ya, a solid lay will put ya right down. Has he even kneaded your dough yet?" She flexes two hands in the air.

With the napkin pressed to my mouth, my wide eyes belay my embarrassment.

"Johanna!" I hiss as I lean forward. My overreaction seems to have fueled her for another suggestion.

"All I'm saying is if you're fresh out of booze, pills or sex, the best sleep remedy is, as always, your trusty friend," she winks, lifting her hand and waving her fingers.

I shake my head and give her a muddled look.

"Got to get on with the self-lovin', you know what I mean?" Johanna says, wiggling an eyebrow.

Taken aback, I feel my face grow hot and I look around, hoping no one has caught onto our conversation. "What's wrong with you?" I hiss. "How can you talk about something like that at a time like this?"

"You think I should be moping around hating the last few days of my life? I'd rather be showing my wrestling trainer a few more moves back in my room." Johanna winks and takes another bite of her bread, chewing with a big smile.

"Well, I can't afford to think like that. And what you've been through, I can't see how you can either," I say, dabbing water spots off the front of my shirt. Finnick has put a complete halt to his stories and turns his attention to Johanna. In their silence, I realize what I have said and look up expecting another one of her famous outbursts.

Instead, she replies with a huge guffaw while Finnick keeps a careful watch.

"Snow may control the Games or even who fucked me if they had enough coin. But hear this: I'm in control of when, where and how _I_ get off. Seriously, I have no regrets about the things I do, because _I _chose to do them."

"But how can you even do something that someone like... Snow used against you?" I ask quietly, stealing a quick glance at Finnick, making sure I'm not about to cross any lines.

"You're not always in control, but when you are, why not enjoy it?" she says, leaning back in her chair, folding her hands behind her head.

I see a slight nod from Finnick and he turns back to Mags, picking up where he left off about some fisherman's tale about 'mermaids.'

Keeping her eyes on Peeta as he starts his walk back to our table with a full tray of food, she quietly concludes her suggestion before he gets too close to hear, "I'm serious about what I said. You'll be out like a light. Or is a little handy work too hot for our Girl on Fire?"

With a sigh, I drop my head in my hands and Peeta sits down in his seat next to me. "What did I miss?"

My sigh turns into a groan when I hear Mags start to laugh.

* * *

Later in the evening, Peeta and I are escorted to our rooms by Effie who is going on and on about tomorrow's Sponsor's Ball. All the while, I roll my eyes and drag my feet, dreading every detail coming out of her tangerine colored mouth.

"Remember children, tomorrow you will have to be up early for your prep team! With your training and all, I am sure they will have a lot of work ahead of them. So get straight to bed! You want that beauty sleep for your sponsors!" she sings as she shoo's us down the hall while her tiny shoes tap the beat.

When we arrive at my room, she pulls the door open and shoves me inside before I have the chance to utter one complaint. The door slams shut behind me and I hear a muffled Peeta say his _good nights_ and _thank yous_ before Effie's tickity-tap disappears down the hall.

I shuffle straight to the bathroom to begin my after training routine: tug my braid loose, groan a melody as I strip off my filthy uniform, press the three buttons I know to be safe in the shower, and stand under the water until I feel the salt leave my skin and the ache from my muscles.

After the shower, my appetite tugs at me for something, _anything,_ to eat. With my towel still wrapped tightly around me, I find a green apple in a small fruit basket on the window-side table set out to make the room more welcoming. I'm surprised the apple isn't made of wax because I could swear that same fruit basket has been here since I arrived. When I bite into it, cracking through the firm skin, the freshest, perfectly sour juice hits my tongue. I shake my head and wonder if this is a Capitol creation or from another District, because we had nothing this flawless back home.

I pick out a tank top, underwear and silk bottoms to wear for bed, and when I let my towel fall to the ground, I think about Johanna.

I turn to the full-length mirror on the wall and for the first time since the Reaping, I look at myself. I truly look at myself, just me, not covered up in a polyester uniform or in an old leather jacket. I notice new curves since I stood in front of the mirror in Cinna's simple yellow gown. If I were to put it on now, the front would no longer need the padding he added in lieu of me being _altered_, and the straps would hang a bit prouder on my shoulders. Petite, pale, smooth legs wouldn't be peaking out from under the hem, but broader calves with newer scars would show.

With the apple in my hand, I vaguely remember a similar image of a nude woman with an apple in an old story book. I don't know what all the fuss was about, I guess I was too young to understand the symbolism. I shrug and take another bite, studying my face as my jaw moves. Although fatigue shows in my eyes, they are no longer scared or feral. My face is clean of blood and grime; it almost glows in the soft light of the room.

This must be what Johanna feels when she looks in the mirror, to see that she is not broken or frail or even resembling the child that she was in the arena. I feel a sense of pride with my shape and strength in the lines and angles of my body, but not the same pride as Johanna to go traipse around the hallways or elevators.

Even with a slight new confidence in myself, I still feel the urge to cover up and slip on the tank top and underwear. Once in bed, I give the voice command to dim the lights and settle into my next routine of staring at the ceiling.

And I wait.

Soon, my finger is tapping and my foot shakes idly.

_"You're not always in control."_

What happened to Johanna, I wonder. She let on that she was like Finnick, being used by the rich Capitol citizens. But how did Thread get to her? Snow has his ways of enforcing his _rules. _Could he have used Thread to get Johanna back to the Capitol to _perform_? Or was it her refusal that earned her his punishment?

I wonder where I would be if the rules didn't change and I became the sole Victor, or if Peeta would be entertaining the green skinned, blue lipped, upper class if I kept the berries in my mouth.

But how is she not broken? How is she so confident?

_"I have no regrets about the things I do, because I chose to do them."_

I chose to lie in the flowers, and that didn't turn out so bad I guess. I chose to let Peeta stay in my bed and he never hurt me. But I also chose to visit Haymitch that night and empty that bottle. I chose to stand up to Thread.

I kick the covers off and drop to the floor, forcing myself to do push-ups until I lose count and the twisting ache in my chest moves to my arms instead.

I can't think of the choices I have made, but of the choices I will make; ensuring Peeta gets his victory means I will die, and that's more important than the past.

Maybe tonight I should go to Peeta's room, because mine suddenly feels empty and cold without him.

When the clock chimes a little tune for midnight, I run to the door; just as my hand closes around the knob, I hear the locks click.

"No..." I sigh, and with a huff I fall back into bed.

And I wait.

_"You'll be out like a light."_

It's such a stupid idea. My hands rest on my belly and my fingers start to tap again as I regret throwing out those blue pills.

_"Why not enjoy it?"_

How could I enjoy something like that? Thread, the camera, that horrible dream...

But at this moment, there are no cameras, no eyes, no Thread and no sleep for nightmares. I am safely locked in my room, alone and wide awake.

Johanna must have been teasing me like the others had, trying to make me uncomfortable. Yet somehow, I become curious and wonder if she was actually being serious about her _remedy._

Fingers continue to tap on the bare flesh between my tank top and underwear.

_"Or is a little handy work too hot for our Girl on Fire?"_

Part of me wanted to tell Johanna everything, that I'm not some sweet, pure, little girl. I've done... stuff.

My personal experimenting was mostly out of boredom and sheer curiosity sparked by Madge teasing me about my inexperience. It never amounted to much. I wasn't even sure what I was accomplishing, but it was one of the few times I could be selfishly alone. Only a handful of times did I have the opportunity to partake in such an activity: during the summer months when my mother was away for days at a time delivering babies, or Prim was out late at a friend's house.

The tapping stops when my finger runs across the plain cotton fabric of my underwear.

"Damnit, Johanna," I mumble to myself and slip my fingers under the elastic. Staring up at the ceiling, my fingers gently explore the different textures of soft curls and smooth flesh. My hand stills when my middle digit slides further down and dips into a slick heat. Fighting the urge to try Johanna's remedy must have awakened something that was eagerly awaiting my attention.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and reluctantly start to move my fingers, slowly swirling them over my most sensitive spot then back down to my center. Concentrating on how I feel under my fingertips, frustration begins to take over. This never worked for me before, but there has to be something more to it.

This time it felt wrong. A twinge of guilt stops my hand. I should be concentrating on the Games or even that stupid party tomorrow night. Not only do I feel guilty, I'm slightly embarrassed to be touching myself after what Thread did.

If this is one of the ways Johanna can be in control, why cant I? These are my hands. This is my choice. This is my last ditch effort to get some sleep. That's all.

Besides the guilt and the embarrassment, it feels different. I'm not awkwardly in the woods with my hand down my pants listening for Gale's silent footsteps to suddenly appear, or at home listening for Prim to trample up the creaky front steps.

I'm alone. I'm safe. I'm in control.

I let my mind wander.

I think of the safest place and the safest person I know - I picture myself lying in the same yellow flowers from training, but this time in the meadow and Peeta is with me. I think of his steady artist's hands when he made me disappear, wondering how his touch would feel under the fabric of my uniform.

I let my left hand wander.

Fingertips delicately skip across my belly and dip under my night shirt. They trace my ribs, just under my breast. They venture over my nipple and skim across my collarbone.

My hand explores my curves as if it were Peeta's, unfamiliar to the soft skin and gentle rise and fall of hips and breast. Stopping briefly at interesting peaks and valleys, I test my reaction to its touch, caress, pinch and squeeze.

I picture Peeta's blue eyes wide in intrigue and they soon disappear when he dips down, bringing his mouth to my warm bare skin and follows the path of his fingers, tasting their journey.

My left hand twists in the bed sheet. I swallow hard and let my lifted knee fall to the side.

The scent of cinnamon and vanilla fills my senses and suddenly I want more.

My mind and fingers fall deeper.

Suddenly my hips crave the weight of his, my neck his lips, my breasts his hands.

He's said my name a hundred times, but what would it sound like in my ear? Breathless and hungry?

_Katniss._

What would it feel like to have his teeth graze my neck? His nails rake across my back? To have the eloquently spoken baker's son ravish me? To _fuck_ me? Surely he can't be as pure as the white flour.

I pause for a moment, startled by the path my thoughts have taken. How could I think of Peeta like that? He's kinder than that. He's gentle.

_You okay? Does that feel good?_

I nod and my mind and fingers move faster.

Flour, sweat, lips, flowers, touch.

_Katniss, you're so wet... I want to taste you._

No longer am I able to hold onto one thought, or one picture. My pulse thrums a rhythm of unknown desires.

Breath, dust, trees, meadow, wet, hard, soft, white, dark.

Suddenly that something I have been missing begins to build. I hold my breath and I don't want to let go.

Rough hands, blue eyes, hard floor, white hair, pulled hair, yellow paint, orange bubbles, vanilla, cinnamon. Coffee.

I shake my head and clear my throat. For some reason I keep getting mixed up.

Control. _Control._

Focus.

Breathe.

Blue eyes, soft hands, vanilla, smile, yellow, orange. Slow.

But I don't want slow. I am close to whatever that something is and I don't want to slow down. I want his blue eyes in the dark above me. I want the sound of his moans.

I want...

I...

I want his fingers...

_Around my throat._

I gasp at the thought and cry out as a sudden heat rolls over me. It leaves me breathless and trembling at the instant relief and clarity of Johanna's remedy. My left hand is still twisted in pillow, my right too afraid to move from its embrace as I try to catch my breath.

It wasn't supposed to happen like that.

The ceiling comes back into focus, but as fast as I came undone, it is blurred by tears.


End file.
